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Robert Broavning. 



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Libiriii / of Concirese 

Iwo Copies Receuco 
AUG 18 1900 

Copyright wtry 

SECOND COPY. 

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ORDER DIVISION, 
SEP 8 190U 



Copyright, 1900, by W. B. Conkey Company. 



74358 



DEDICATED TO 

ALFRED TENNYSON 

IN POETRY — ILLUSTRIOUS AND CONSUMMATE 
IN FRIENDSHIP — NOBLE AND SINCERE 



In the present selection from my poetry, there is an 
attempt to escape from the embarrassment of appearing 
to pronounce upon what myself may consider the best 
of It. I adopt another principle ; and by simply string- 
ing together certain pieces on the thread of an imagi- 
nary personality, I present them in succession, rather 
as the natural development of a particular experience 
than because I account them the most noteworthy por- 
tion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the 
volume of selections from the poetry of Elizabeth Bar- 
rett Browning: to which— in outward uniformity, at 
least — my own would venture to become a companion. 

A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented 
itself, I might have been tempted to say a word in reply 
to the objections my poetry was used to encounter. 
Time has kindly co-operated with my disinclination to 
write the poetry and the criticism besides. The read- 
ers I am at last privileged to expect, meet me fully half- 
way ; and if, from the fitting standpoint, they must still 
"censure me in their wisdom," they have previously 
"awakened their senses that they may the better 
judge." Nor do I apprehend any more charges of be- 
ing wilfully obscure, unconscientiously careless, or per- 
versely harsh. Having hitherto done my utmost in the 
art to which my life is a devotion, I cannot engage to 
increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be 
helpful light, as well as re-assuring warmth, in the at- 
tention and sympathy I gratefully acknowledge. 

London, May 14, 1872. R. B. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

My star 7 

A Face 7 

My Last Duchess 8 

Song from "Pippa Passes" lo 

Cristina 1 1 

Count Gismond 13 

Eurydice to Orpheus .... 19 

The Glove 19 

Song 25 

A Serenade at the Villa 26 

Youth and Art 29 

The Flight of the Duchess 32 

Song from ' ' Pippa Passes' ' 65 

"How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix" 65 

Song from "Paracelsus" 6^ 

Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr 70 

Incident of the French Camp 71 

The Lost Leader 73 

In a Gondola 75 

A Lovers' Quarrel 83 

Earth's Immortalities , 89 

The Last Ride Together 90 

Mesmerism 94 

By the Fireside 99^ 

Any Wife to Any Husband iii' 

In a Year 117 

Song from "James Lee" 120 

A Woman's Last Word 120 

Meeting at Night 122 

Parting at Morning 123 

Women and Roses 123 

Misconceptions 125 

5 



6 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A Pretty Woman 126 

A Light Woman 129 

Love in a Life ». 1-^2 

Life in a Love 133 

The Laboratory 133 

Gold Hair 136 

The Statue and the Bust 143 

Love Among the Ruins 153 

Time's Revenges 157 

Waring 159 

Home Thoughts from Abroad 167 

The Italian in England 168 

The Englishman in Italy 173 

Up at a Villa ; Down in the City 182 

Pictor Ignotus 187 

Fra Lippo Lippi 190 

Andrea del Sarto 205 

The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's 

Church 215 

A Toccata of Galuppi's 219 

How it Strikes a Contemporary 223 

Proteus 227 

Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha 229 

Abt Vogler 237 

Two in the Campagna 243 

"De Gustibus" 246 

The Guardian Angel 247 

Evelyn Hope 250 

Memorabilia 252 

Apparent Failure 253 

Prospice 255 

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" 257 

A Grammarian's Funeral 266 

Cleon 271 

Instans Tyrannus 284 

An Epistle 286 

Caliban upon Setebos 297 

Saul 308 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 329 

Epilogue 338 



BROWNING'S POEMS, 



MY STAR. 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, 

Now a dart of blue ; 
Till my friends have said 

They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue! 
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs 
furled ; 

They must solace themselves with the Sat- 
urn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a world? 

Mine has opened its soul tome; therefore, I 
love it. 

A FACE. 

If one could have that little head of hers 
Painted upon a background of pale gold, 
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! 
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould 
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft 
In the pure profile ; not as when she laughs, 
7 



8 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft 
Yon hyacinth, she love so, leaned its staff's 
Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. 
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might sur- 
round. 
How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb : 
But these are only massed there, I should 

think, 
Waiting to see some wonder momently 
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky, 
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet 

face by) 
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye 
With fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. 

MY LAST DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now ; Fra Pandolf 's hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands 
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 
"Fra Pandolf" by design: for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured countenance. 
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 9 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
Of joy into the Duchess* cheek : perhaps 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps 
"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 
"Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
"Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such 

stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad, 
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er 
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, 
The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
The bough of cherries some officious fool 
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 
She rode with round the terrace— all and each 
Would draw from her alike the approving 

speech. 
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! 

but thanked 
Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 
In speech — (which I have not) — ^to make your 

will 
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 
"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, 
"Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

2 Browning 



10 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I 

choose 
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave 

commands; 
Then all smiles stopped together. There she 

stands 
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll 

meet 
The company below, then. I repeat, 
The Count your master's known munificence 
Is ample warrant that no just pretence 
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 
Which Glaus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for 

me? 

SONG FROM ''PIPPA PASSES." 



Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 

When — where — 
How — can this arm establish her above me, 

If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 
There already, to eternally reprove me? 

("Hist!" — said Kate the queen; 
But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tres- 
ses, 

" 'Tis only a page that carols unseen. 
*\Crumbling your hounds their messes!") 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 11 



Is she wronged? — To the rescue of her honor, 

My heart! 
Is she poor? — What costs it to become a donor? 

Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
But that fortune should have thrust all this 
upon her! 

("Nay, list!" — bade Kate the queen; 
And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

" 'Tis only a page that carols unseen, 
"Fitting your hawks their jesses!") 

CRISTINA. 



She should never have looked at me if she 

meant I should not love her! 
There are plenty . . . men, you call such, I 

suppose . . . she may discover 
All her soul, too, if she pleases, and yet leave 

much as she found them : 
But I'm not so, and she knew it when she fixed 

me, glancing round them. 

II 

What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I 

can't tell (there's my weakness) 
What her look said! — no vile cant, sure, about 

"need to strew the bleakness 
"Of come lone shore with its pearl seed, that 

the sea feels" — no "strange yearning 
"That such souls have, most to lavish where 

there's chance of least returning. " 



12 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Ill 

Oh, we've sunk enough here, God knows! but 
not quite so sunk that moments, 

Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the 
spirit's true endowments 

Stand out plainly from its false ones, and ap- 
praise it if pursuing 

Or the right way or the wrong way, to its tri- 
umph or undoing. 

IV 

There are flashes stuck from midnights, there 

are fire-flames noondays kindle, 
Whereby piled-up honors perish, whereby 

swollen ambitions dwindle, 
While just this or that poor impulse, which for 

once had play unstifled, 
Seems the sole work of a life-time that away 

the rest have trifled. 



Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she 

fixed me, she felt clearly. 
Ages past the soul existed, here an age 'tis 

resting merely. 
And hence fleets again for ages: while the true 

end, sole and single. 
It stops here for is, this love-way, with some 

other soul to mingle? 

VI 

Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally 
must lose it: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 13 

Better ends may be in prospect deeper blisses 

(if you choose it), 
But this life's end and this love-bliss have been 

lost here. Doubt you whether 
This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her 

souls rushed together? 

VII 

Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, the 

world's honors, in derision, 
Trampled out the light forever. Never fear 

but there's provision 
Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we 

walk the earth in rapture ! 
— Making those who catch God's secret, just so 

much more prize their capture ! 

VIII 

Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has 

lost me, I have gained her; 
Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, I 

shall pass my life's remainder. 
Life will just hold out the proving both our 

powers, alone and blended: 
And then, come next life quickly! This 

world's use will have been ended. 

COUNT GISMOND. 

AIX IV PROVENCE. 
I 

Christ God who savest man, save most 

Of men Count Gismond who saved me I 
Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, 



14 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Chose time and place and company 
To suit it ; when he struck at length 
My honor, 'twas with all his strength. 

II 

And doubtlessly, ere he could draw 

All points to one, he must have schemed ! 

That miserable morning saw 
Few half so happy as I seemed, 

While being dressed in queen's array 

To give our tourney prize away. 

Ill 

I thought they loved me, did me grace 
To please themselves; 'twas all their deed 

God makes, or fair or foul, our face ; 
If showing mine so caused to bleed 

My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped 

A word, and straight the play had stopped. 

IV 

They, too, so beauteous ! Each a queen 
By virtue of her brow and breast ; 

Not needing to be crowned, I mean. 
As I do. E'en when I was dressed, 

Had either of them spoke, instead 

Of glancing sideways with still head ! 



But no: they let me laugh, and sing 
My birthday song quite through, adjust 

The last rose in my garland, fling 
A last look on the mirror, trust 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 15 

My arms to each an arm of theirs, 
And so descend the castle-stairs — 

VI 

And come out on the morning troop 
Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, 

And called me queen, and made me stoop 
Under the canopy — (a streak 

That pierced it, of the outside sun, 

Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) — 

VII 

And they could let me take my state 
And foolish throne amid applause 

Of all come there to celebrate 

My queen's-day — Oh I think the cause 

Of much was, they forgot no crowd 

Makes up for parents in their shroud! 

VIII 

However that be, all eyes were bent 

Upon me, when my cousins cast 
Theirs down, 'twas time I should present 

The victor's crown, but . . . there, 'twill last 
No long time . . . the old mist again 
Blinds me as then it did. How vain ! 

IX 

See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk 
With his two boys: I can proceed. 

Well, at that moment, who should stalk 
Forth boldly — to mv face, indeed — 

But Gauthier? and he thundered "Stay!" 

And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say! 



16 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



** Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet 
*' About her! Let her shun the chaste, 

"Or lay herself before their feet! 
** Shall she, whose body I embraced 

**A night long, queen it in the day? 

**For honor's sake no crowns, I say!" 

XI 

I? What I answered? As I live, 

I never fancied such a thing 
As answer possible to give. 

What says the body when they spring 
Some monstrous torture-engine's whole 
Strength on it? No more says the soul. 

XII 

Till out strode Gismond ; then I knew 
That I was saved. I never met 

His face before, but at first view, 
I felt quite sure that God had set 

Himself to Satan : who would spend 

A minute's mistrust on the end? 



XIII 

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat 

Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth 

With one back-handed blow that wrote 

In blood men's verdict there. North, South, 

East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, 

And damned, and truth stood up instead. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. n 



XIV 



This glads me most, that I enjoyed 
The heart o' the joy, with my content 

In watching Gismond unalloyed 
By any doubt of the event : 

God took that on him — I was bid 

Watch Gismond for my part : I did. 

XV 

Did I not watch him while he let 
His armourer just brace his greaves, 

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret 
The while ! His foot . . . my memory leaves 

No least stamp out, nor how anon 

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 

XVI 

And e'en before the trumpet's sound 
Was finished, prone lay the false knight, 

Prone as his lie, upon the ground: 
Gismond flew at him, used no sleight 

O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, 

Cleaving till out the truth he clove. 

XVII 

Which done, he dragged him to my feet 
And said, '*Here die, but end thy breath 

*'In full confession, lest thou fleet 

"From my first, to God's second death! 

**Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied 

**To God and her," he said, and died. 

2 



18 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XVIII 

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked 

— What safe my heart holds, though no word 

Could I repeat now, if I tasked 
My powers for ever, to a third 

Dear even as you are. Pass the rest 

Until I sank upon his breast. 

XIX 

Over my head his arm he flung 

Against the world; and scarce I felt 

His sword (that dripped by me and swung) 
A little shifted in its belt: 

For he began to say the while 

How South our home lay many a mile. 

XX 

So, 'mid the shouting multitude 

• We two walked forth to never more 

Return. My cousins have pursued 

Their life, untroubled as before 
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place 
God lighten ! May his soul find grace ! 

XXI 

Our elder boy has got the clear 

Great brow; tho' when his brother's black 
Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here? 

And have you brought my tercel back? 
I was just telling Adela 
How many birds it struck since May. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 19 

EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. 

A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R. A. 

But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the 

brow ! 
Let them once more absorb me ! One look now 

Will lap me round forever, not to pass 
Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond: 
Hold me but safe again within the bond 

Of one immortal look ! All woe that was, 
Forgotten, and all terror that may be, 
Defied, — no past is mine, no future : look at me ! 

THE GLOVE. 
(peter ronsard loquitur.) 

"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, 
''Distance all value enhances! 
"When a man's busy, why, leisure 
* 'Strikes him as wonderful pleasure : 
" 'Faith, and as leisure once is he? 
"Straightway he wants to be busy. 
"Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm 
"Caught thinking war the true pastime. 
"Is there a reason in metre? 
"Give us your speech, master Peter?" 
I who, if mortal dare say so, 
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, 
"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: 
"Men are the merest Ixions" — 
Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's 
"... Heigho ... go look at our lions!" 
Such are the sorrowful chances 
If you talk fine to King Francis. 



20 BROWNINGS POEMS. 

And so, to the courtyard proceeding, 

Our company, Francis was leading, 

Increased by new followers tenfold 

Before he arrived at the penfold ; 

Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen 

At sunset the western horizon. 

And Sir de Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost 

With the dame he professed to adore most — 

Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed 

Her, and the horrible pitside; 

For the penfold surrounded a hollow 

Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, 

And shelved to the chamber secluded 

Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. 

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab 

As glossy and black as a scarab, 

And bade him make sport at once stir 

Up and out of his den the old monster. 

They opened a hole in the wire- work 

Across it, and dropped there a firework, 

And fled: one's heart beating redoubled; 

A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 

The blackness and silence so utter, 

By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; 

Then earth in a sudden contortion 

Gave out to our gaze her abortion. 

Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot 

(Whose experience of nature's but narrow, 

And whose faculties move in no small mist 

When he versifies David the Psalmist) 

I should study that brute to describe you 

Ilium Juda Leoneni de Tribu, 

One s whole blood grew curdling and creepy 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 21 

To see the black mane, vast and heapy, 
The tail in the air stiff and straining, 
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, 
As over the barrier which bounded 
His platform, and us who surrounded 
The barrier, they reached and they rested 
On space that might stand him in best stead : 
For he knew, he thought, what the amaze- 
ment, 
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, 
And if, in this minute of wonder. 
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, 
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, 
The lion at last was delivered? 
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! 
And you saw by the flash on his forehead. 
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, 
He was leagues in the desert already. 
Driving the flocks up the mountain, 
Or catlike crouched hard by the fountain 
To waylay the date-gathering negress: 
So guarded he entrance or egress. 
"How he stands!" quoth the King: *'we may 

w^ell swear, 
("No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere 
"And so can afford the confession,) 
"We exercise wholesome discretion 
"In keeping aloof from his threshold, 
"Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh 

hold, 
"Their first would too pleasantly purloin 
"The visitor's brisket or sirloin: 
"But who's he would prove so foolhardy? 
"Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!" 



22 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The sentence no sooner was uttered, 
Than over the rails a glove fluttered, 
Fell close to the lion, and rested: 
The dame 't was, who flung it and jested 
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing 
For months past, he sat there pursuing 
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance 
Fine speeches like gold from a balance. 

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! 
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, 
Walked straight to the glove, — while the lion 
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on 
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, 
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir, — 
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated. 
Leaped back where the lady was seated 
And full in the face of its owner 
Flung the glove. 

** Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? 
**So should I!" — cried the King — " 'twas mere 

vanity, 
*'Not love, set that task to humanity!" 
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing 
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Not so, I ; for I caught an expression 
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession 
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment, — 
As if from no pleasing experiment 
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful 
So long as the process was needful, — 
As if she had tried, in a crucible, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 23 

To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, 
And, finding the finest proof coiDper, 
Felt smoke in her face was not proper; 
To know what she had not to trust to, 
V7as worth all the ashes and dust too. 
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; 
Clement Marot stayed ; I followed after, 
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? 
If she washed not the rash deed's recallment? 
*'For I"— so I spoke — "am a poet: 
"Human nature — behoves that I know it!** 
She told me, "Too long had I heard 
"Of the deed proved atone by the word: 
"For my love — what De Lorge w^ould not 

dare ! 
"With my scorn — what De Lorge could com- 
pare ! 
"And the endless descriptions of death 
"He would brave when my lip formed a 

breath, 
"I must reckon as braved, or of course, 
"Doubt his word — and moreover, perforce, 
"For such gifts as no lady could spurn, 
"Must offer my love in return. 
"When I looked on your lion, it brought 
"All the dangers at once to my thought, 
"Encountered by all sorts of men, 
"Before he was lodged in his den, — 
"From the poor slave whose club or bare 

hands 
**Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, 
"With no King and no Court to applaud, 
"By no shame should he shrink, overawed, 
"Yet to capture the creature made shift, 



24 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

**That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, 

*• — To the page who last lea- -^d o'er the fence 

"Of the pit, on no greater p. tence 

**Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, 

**Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. 

*'So, wiser I judged it to make 

*'One trial what 'death for my sake' 

** Really meant, while the power was yet mine 

"Than to wait until time should define 

**Such a phrase not so simply as I, 

*'Who took it to mean just 'to die.' 

*'The blow a glove gives is but weak: 

"Does the mark yet discolor my cheek? 

"But when the heart suffers a blow, 

"Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" 

I looked, as away she was sweeping, 

And saw a youth eagerly keeping 

As close as he dared to the doorway. 

No doubt that a noble should more weigh 

His life than befits a plebeian ; . 

And yet, had our brute been Nemean — 

(I judge by a certain calm fervor 

The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) 

— He'd have scarce thought you did him the 

worst turn 
If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, 

first earn!" 
And when, shortly after, she carried 
Her shame from the court, and they married. 
To that marriage some happiness, maugre 
The voice of the Court, I dared auger. 
For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, 
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 25 

And, in short, stood so plain a head taller 
That he wooed ^j^id won . . . how do you call 

her? -t^-; 

The beauty, that rose in the sequel 
To the King's love, who loved her a week 

well. 
And 't was noticed he never would honor 
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) 
With the easy commission of stretching 
His legs in the service, and fetching 
His wife, from her chamber, those straying 
Sad gloves she was always mislaying. 
While the King took the closet to chat in, — 
But of course this adventure came pat in. 
And never the King told the story. 
How bringing a glove brought such glory, 
But the wife smiled, — 
*'His nerves are grown firmer: 
*'Mine he brings now and utters no murmur." 

Ve?iie?tti occurrite morbof 

With which moral I drop my theorbo. 



SONG. 



Nay but you, who do not love her. 
Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 

Holds earth aught — speak truth — above her? 
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, 

And this last fairest tress of all, 

So fair, see, ere I let it fall? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Because j^ou spend your lives in praising; 

To praise, you search the wide world over; 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing, 

If earth holds aught — speak truth — above 
her? 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much ! 

A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. 



That was I, you heard last night. 
When there rose no moon at all. 

Nor, to pierce the strained and tight 
Tent of heaven, a planet small: 

Life was dead, and so was light. 



Not a twinkle from the fly, 

Not a glimmer from the worm, 

When the crickets stopped their cry, 
When the owls forebore a term, 

You heard music ; that was I. 



Ill 

Earth turned in her sleep with pain, 
Sultrily suspired for proof: 

In at heaven, and out again, 

Lightning! — where it' broke the roof, 

Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 27 



IV 

What they could my words expressed, 

Of my love, my all, my one! 
Singing helped the verses best, 

And when singing's best was done, 
To my lute I left the rest 

V 

So wore night ; the East was gray, 

White the broad-faced hemlock flowers 

There would be another day; 
Ere its first of heavy hours 

Found me, I had passed away. 

VI 

What became of all the hopes. 
Words and song and lute as well? 

Say, this struck you: "When life gropes 
*' Feebly for the path where fell 

*' Light last on the evening slopes, — 

VII 

'*One friend in that path shall be, 

"To secure my step from wrong; 
"One to count night day for me, 
"Patient through the watches long, 
"Serving most with none to see." 

VIII 

Never say — as something bodes — 
"So, the worst has yet a worse! 

**When life halts 'neath double loads, 
"Better the task-master's curse 

"Than such music on the roads! 



28 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

IX 

**When no moon succeeds the sun, 
"Nor can pierce the midnight's tent 

*'Any star, the smallest one, 

"While some drops, where lightning rent, 

"Show the final storm begun — 



"When the fire-fly hides its spot, 
"When the garden-voices fail 

"In the darkness thick and hot, — 
"Shall another voice avail, 

"That shape be where these are not? 

XI 

"Has some plague a longer lease, 
"Proffering its help uncouth? 

"Can't one even die in peace?' 
"As one shuts one's eye on youth, 

"Is that face the last one seen?" 

XII 

Oh how dark your villa was, 
Windows fast and obdurate! 

How the garden grudged me grass 
Where I stood — the iron gate 

Ground its teeth to let me pass! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 29 

YOUTH AND ART. 



It once mig-ht have been, once only: 
We lodged in a street together, 

Yon, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 
I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 



Your trade was with sticks and clay, 

You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, 

Then laughed "They will see, some day, 
"Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 



Ill 

My business was song, song, song, 

I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered; 

"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, 
"And Grisi's existence embittered: ' 



IV 

I earned no more by a warble 
Than you by a sketch in plaster; 

You wanted a piece of marble, 
I needed a music-master. 



We studied hard in our styles, 

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, 

For air, looked out on the tiles, 

For fun, watched each other's windows. 



BROWNING'S POEMS 



VI 

You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard t( 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With fingers the clay adhered to. 

VII 

And I — soon managed to find 

Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 
Was forced to put up a blind 

And be safe in my corset-lacing. 

VIII 

No harm ! It was not my fault 

If you never turned your eye's tail up 

As I shook upon E in alt. , 

Or ran the chromatic scale up : 

IX 

For spring bade the sparrows pair, 
And the boys and girls gave guesses, 

And stalls in our street looked rare 
With bulrush and watercresses. 



Why did not you pinch a flower 
In a pellet of clay and fling it? 

Why did not I put a power 
Of thanks in a look, or sing it? 

XI 

I did look, sharp as a lynx, 

(And yet the memory rankles) 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 31 

When models arrived, some minx 
Tripped upstairs, she and her ankles. 

XII 

But I think I gave you as good ! 

'*That foreign fellow, — who can know 
"How she pays, in a playful mood, 

"For his tuning her that piano?" 

XIII 

Could you say no, and never say 

"Suppose we join hands and fortunes, 

"And I fetch her from over the way, 

"Her, piano, and long tunes and short 
tunes?" 

XIV 

No, no; you would not be rash. 
Nor I rasher and something over; 

You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 
And Grisi yet lives in clover. 

XV 

But you meet the Prince at the Board, 

I'm queen myself at bals-pares^ 
I've marred a rich old lord. 

And you're dubbed knight and an R. A. 

XVI 

Each life's unfulfilled, you see; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: 
We have not sighed deep, laughed free, 

Starved, feasted, despaired, — ^been happy. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XVII 



And nobody calls you a dunce, 
And people suppose me clever; 

This could but have happened once, 
And we missed it, lost it forever. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



You're my friend: 

I was the man the Duke spoke to; 

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too; 

So, here's the tale from beginning to end. 

My friend ! 



Ours is a great wild country: 

If you climb to our castle's top, 

I don't see where your eye can stop; 

For when you've passed the corn-field country 

Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 

And sheep-range leads to cattle-track. 

And cattle-track to open-chase. 

And open -chase to the very base 

O' the mountain where, at a funeral pace, 

Round about, solemn and slow. 

One by one, row after row, 

Up and up the pine-trees go, 

So, like black priests, up and so 

Down the other side again 

To another greater, wilder country. 

That's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 33 

Branched through and through with many a 

vein 
Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; 
Look right, look left, look straight before, — 
Beneath they mine, above they smelt, 
Copper-ore and iron-ore. 
And forge and furnace mould and melt, 
And so on, more and ever more, 
Till at the last, for a bounding belt, 
Comes the salt sand hoar of the great seashore, 
— And the whole is our Duke's country. 

Ill 

I was born the day this present Duke was — 
(And O, says the song, ere I was old !) 
In the castle where the other Duke was — 
(When I was happy and young, not old!) 
I in the kennel, he in the bower: 
We are of like age to an hour. 
My father was huntsman in that day; 
Who has not heard my father say 
That, when a boar was brought to bay, 
Three times, four times out of five, 
With his huntspear he'd contrive 
To get the killing-place transfixed, 
And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? 
And that's why the old Duke would rather 
He lost a salt-pit than my father, 
And loved to have him ever in call; 
That's why my father stood in the hall 
When the old Duke brought his infant out 
To show the people, and while they passed 
The wondrous bantling round about, 
Was first to start at the outside blast 

3 Browning 



34 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, 

Just a month after the babe was born. 

"And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, "since 

"The Duke has got an heir, our Prince 

"Needs the Duke's self at his side:" 

The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, 

But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, 

Castles a-fire, men on their march, 

The toppling tower, the crashing arch ; 

And up he looked, and awhile he eyed 

The row of crests and shields and banners 

Of all achievements after all manners. 

And "ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. 

The more was his comfort when he died 

At next year's end, in a velvet suit, 

With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot 

In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 

Petticoated like a herald. 

In a chamber next to an ante room, 

Where he breathed the breath of page and 

groom, 
What he called stink, and they, perfume: 
— They should have set him on red Berold 
Mad with pride, like fire to manage! 
They should have got his cheek fresh tannage 
Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine ! 
Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! 
(Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game! 
Oh, for a noble falcon-lanner 
To flap each broad wing like a banner. 
And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) 
Had they broached a cask of white beer from 

Berlin! 
— Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 35 

Put to his lips when they saw him pine, 
A cup of our own ^loldavia fine, 
Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel 
And ropy with sweet, — we shall not quarrel. 

IV 

So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 

Was left with the infant in her clutches, 

She being the daughter of God knows who ; 

And now was the time to revisit her tribe. 

Abroad and afar they went, the two, 

And let our people rail and gibe 

At the empty hall and extinguished fire, 

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, 

Till after long years we had our desire. 

And back came the Duke and his mother again. 



And he came back the pertest little ape 
That ever affronted human shape; 
Full of his travel, struck at himself. 
You'd say he despised our bluff old ways? 
— Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf 
That our rough North land was the Land of 

Lays. 
The one good thing left in evil daj^s ; 
Since the Mid- Age was the Heroic Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 
Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, 
And see true castles with proper towers, 
Young-hearted women, old-minded men. 
And manners now as manners were then. 
So, all that the old Dukes had been, without 

knowing it, 



36 BROWI^IING'S POEMS. 

This Duke would fain know he was, without 

being it ; 
*Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his 

showing" it, 
Nor for the pride's self but the pride of our 

seeing it, 
He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out. 
The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of 

them torn-out; 
And chief in the chase his neck he periled. 
On a lathy horse, all legs and length, 
With blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; 
— They should have set him on red Berold 
With the red eye slow consuming in fire, 
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire! 

VI 

Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: 

And out of a convent, at the word, 

Came the lady, in time of spring. 

— Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! 

That day, I know, with a dozen oaths 

I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes 

Fit for the chase of urox or buffle 

In winter-time when you need to muffle. 

But the Duke had a mind we should cut a 

figure, 
And so we saw the lady arrive : 
My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! 
She was the smallest lady alive, 
Made in a piece of nature's madness. 
Too smart, almost, for the life and gladness 
That over-filled her, as some hive 
Out of the bears' reach on the high trees 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 37 

Is crowded with its safe merry bees.* 
In truth, she was not hard to please ! 
Up she looked, down she looked, round at the 

mead, 
Straight at the castle, that's best indeed 
To look at from outside the walls: 
As for us, styled the "serfs and thralls," 
She as much thanked me as if she had said it, 
(With her eyes, do you understand?) 
Because I patted her horse while I led it; 
And Max, who rode on her other hand, 
Said, no bird flew past but she inquired 
What its true name was, nor ever seemed 

tired — 
If that was an eagle she saw hover, 
And the green and grey bird on the field was 

the plover. 
When suddenly appeared the Duke: 
And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed 
On to my hand, — as with a rebuke, 
And as if his backbone were not jointed. 
The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, 
And welcomed her with his grandest smile ; 
And, mind you, his mother all the while 
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward ; 
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies 
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; 
And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, 
The lady's face stopped its play, 
As if her first hair had grown grey; 
For such things must begin som.e one day. 



38 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

VII 

In a day or two she was well again; 

As who should say, "You labor in vain! 

"This is all a jest against God, who meant 

"I should ever be, as I am, content 

"And glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will 

be." 
So, smiling as at first went she. 

VIII 

She was active, stirring, all fire — 

Could not rest, could not tire — 

To a stone she might have given life! 

(I myself loved once, in my day) 

— For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, 

(I had a wife, I know what I say) 

Never in all the world such an one ! 

And here was plenty to be done, 

And she that could do it, great or small, 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his post, 

This in his station, and that in his office, 

And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, 

To meet his eye with the other trophies, 

Now outside the hall, now in it. 

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen. 

At the proper place in the proper minute, 

And die away the life between. 

And it was amusing enough, each infraction 

Of rule — (but for after-sadness that came) 

To hear the consummate self-satisfaction 

With which the young Duke and the old dame 

Would let her advise, and criticise, 

And, being a fool, instruct the wise. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 39 

And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame. 
They bore it all in complacent guise. 
As though an artificer, after contriving 
A wheel- work image as if it were living, 
Should find with delight it could motion to 

strike him 
So found the Duke, and his mother like him : 
The lady hardly got a rebuff — 
That had not been contemptuous enough, 
With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, 
And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. 

IX 

So, the little lady grew silent and thin, 

Paling and ever paling, 
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 

And the Duke perceived that she was ailing. 
And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to spite me, 
"But I shall find in my power to right me!" 
Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year, 
Is in hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall 
hear. 



Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, 
When the stag had to break with his foot, of a 

morning 
A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice, 
That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice. 
Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold. 
And another and another, and faster and faster. 
Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water 

rolled, — 
Then it so chanced that thf^ Duke our master 



40 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Asked himself what were the pleasures in 

season, 
And found, since the calendar bade him be 

hearty, 
He should do the Middle Age no treason 
In resolving on a hunting-party. 
Always provided, old books showed the way of 

it! 
What meant old poets by their strictures? 
And when old poets had said their say of it, 
How taught old painters in their pictures? 
We must revert to the proper channels. 
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, 
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions. 
Here was food for our various ambitions, 
As on each case, exactly stated — 
To encourage your dog, now, the prospect 

chirrup, 
Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your 

stirrup — ' 
We of the household took thought and debated. 
Blessed was he whose back ached with the 

jerkin 
His sire was wont to do forest- work in; 
Blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" 
And *'ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's 

trunk-hose ; 
What signified hats if they had no rims on. 
Each slouching before and behind like the 

scallop. 
And able to serve at sea for a shallop, 
Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? 
So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme 

on't, 



BROWNINCx'S POEMS. 41 

What with our Venerers, Prickers and Ver- 

derers, 
Might hope for real hunters at length and not 

murderers, 
And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time 

on 't! 

XI 

Now you must know that when the first diz- 
ziness 
Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots 

subsided, 
The Duke put this question, *'The Duke's part 

provided, 
"Had not the Duchess some share in the 

business!" 
For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses 
Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses: 
And, after much laying of heads together, 
Somebody's cap got a notable feather. 
By the announcement with proper unction 
That he had discovered the lady's function; 
Since ancient authors gave this tenet, 
"When horns wind a mort and the deer is at 

siege, 
"Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her 

jennet, 
"And with water to wash the hands of her 

liege 
"In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, 
"Let her preside at the disemboweling." 
Now, my friend, if you had so little religion 
As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner. 
And thrust her broad wings like a banner 

4 Browning 



42 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; 
And if day by day and week by week 
You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, 
And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, 
Would it cause you any great surprise 
If, when you decided to give her an airing, 
You found she needed a little preparing? 
— I say, should you be such a curmudgeon. 
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in 

dudgeon? 
Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, 
Just a day before, as he judged most dignified. 
In what a pleasure she was to participate, — 
And, instead of leaping wide in flashes, 
Her eyes just lifted their long lashes. 
As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dis- 
sipate, 
And duly acknowledged the Duke's fore- 
thought, 
But spoke of her health, if her health were 

worth aught. 
Of the weight by day and the watch by night, 
And much wrong now that used to be right, 
So, thanking him, declined the hunting, — 
Was conduct ever more affronting? 
With all the ceremony settled — 
With the towel ready, and the sewer 
Polishing up his oldest ewer. 
And the jennet pitched upon a pieballed, 
Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye- 
balled, — 
No wonder if the Duke was nettled ! 
And when she persisted nevertheless, — 
Well, I suppose here's the time to confess 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 43 

That there ran half round our lady's chamber 
A balcony none of the hardest to clamber: 
And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in 

waiting, 
Stayed in call outside, what need of relating? 
And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, 

a fervent 
Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant; 
And if she had the habit to peep through the 

casement. 
How could I keep at any vast distance? 
And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence. 
The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement, 
Stood for a while in a sultry smother. 
And then, with a smile that partook of the 

awful, 
Turned her over to his yellow mother 
To learn what was decorous and lawful ; 
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like 

instinct, 
As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its 

quince-tinct. 
Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once ! 
What meant she? — Who was she? — Her duty 

and station. 
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth at 

once, 
Its decent regard and its fitting relation — 
In brief, my friends, set all the devils in hell 

free 
And turn them out to carouse in a belfry 
And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon. 
And then you may guess how that tongue of 

hers ran on ! 



44 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Well, somehow or other it ended at last, 
And, licking her whiskers, out she passed; 
And after her, — making (he hoped) a face 
Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, 
Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace 
Of ancient hero or modern paladin, 
From door to staircase — oh such a solemn 
Unbending of the vertebral column ! 



XII 

However, at sunrise our company mustered ; 
And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, 
And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blus- 
tered 
With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel ; 
For the court-yard walls were filled with fog 
You might cut as an axe chops a log — 
Like so much wool for color and bulkiness; 
And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness. 
Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queas- 

ily. 
And a sinking at the lower abdomen 
Begins the day with indifferent omen. 
And lo, as he looked around uneasily. 
The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it 

asunder 
This way and that, from the valley under; 
And, looking through the court-yard arch, 
Down in the valley, what should meet him 
But a troop of Gipsies on their march, 
No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 45 

XIII 

Now, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only 

After reaching all lands beside ; 

North they go. South they go, trooping or 

lonely, 
And still, as they travel far and wide. 
Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace 

there, 
That puts you in mind of a place here, a place 

there. 
But with us, I believe they rise out of the 

ground. 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned; 
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed on. 
For the earth — not a use to which they don't 

turn it, 
The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, 
Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, 
They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it — 
Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle 
With side-bars never a brute can baffle ; 
Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within 

wards ; 
Or, if your colt's forefoot inclines to curve in- 

vards. 
Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a 

swivel 
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 
Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle 
That keep a stout heart in the ram with theit 

tinkle ; 



46 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

But the sand — they pinch and pound it like 

otters; 
Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and pot- 
ters! 
Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, 
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, 
As if in pure water you dropped and let die 
A bruised black-blooded mulberry ; 
And that other sort, their crowning pride, 
With long white threads distinct inside. 
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dan- 
gle 
Loose such a length and never tangle, 
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear 

waters, 
And the cup-lily couches with all the white 

daughters; 
Such are the works they put their hand to. 
The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 
And these made the troop, which our Duke 

saw sally 
Toward his castle from out of the valley. 
Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, 
Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 
And up they wound till they reached the ditch, 
Whereat all stopped save one, a witch 
That I knew, is she hobbled from the group, 
By her gait directly and her stoop, 
I, whom Jacynth was used to importune 
To let that same witch tell us our fortune. 
The oldest Gipsy then above ground ; 
And, sure as the autumn season came round, 
She paid us a visit for profit or pastime, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 47 

And every time, as she swore, for the last 

time. 
And presently she was seen to sidle 
Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle. 
So that the horse of a sudden reared up 
As under its nose the old witch peered up 
With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes 
Of no use now but to gather brine, 
And began a kind of level whine 
Such as they use to sing to their viols 
When their dities they go grinding 
Up and down with nobody minding. 
And then, as of old, at the end of the humming 
Her usual presents were forthcoming 
— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of tre- 
bles, 
(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine 

pebbles), 
Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe- 
end, — 
And so she awaited her annual stipend. 
But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouch- 
safe 
A word in reply; and in vain she felt 
With twitching fingers at her belt 
For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, 
Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe, — 
Till, either to quicken his apprehension, 
Or possibly with an after intention, 
She was come, she said, to pay her duty 
To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. 
No sooner had she named his lady, 
Than a shine lit up the face so shady. 
And its smirk returned with a novel meaning: 



48 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

For it struck him, the babe just wanted wean- 
ing; 
If one gave her a taste of what life was and 

sorrow 
She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow ; 
And who so fit a teacher of trouble 
As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? 
So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, 
(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute 
That their own fleece serves for natural fur- 
suit) 
He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his ges- 
ture. 
The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate 
With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. 
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 
From out of the throng; and while I drew near 
He told the crone — as I since have reckoned 
By the way he bent and spoke into her ear 
With circumspection and mystery — 
The main of the lady's history, 
Her forwardness and ingratitude ; 
And for all the crone's submissive attitude 
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits 

tightening, 
And her brow with assenting intelligence 

brightening. 
As though she engaged with hearty good- will 
Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil. 
And promised the lady a thorough frightening. 
And so, just giving her a glimpse 
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps 
The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the 
hernshaw, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 49 

He bade me take the Gipsy mother 
And set her telling some story or other 
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw 
To while away a weary hour 
For the lady left alone in her bower, 
Whose mind and body craved exertion, 
And yet shrank from all better diversion. 

XIV 

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere cur- 

veter, 
Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo 
Horses and hounds swept, hunstman and ser- 
vitor, 
And back I turned and bade the crone follow. 
And what makes me confident what's to be 

told you 
Had all along been of this crone's devising. 
Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you. 
There was a novelty quick as surprising ; 
For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, 
And her step kept pace with mine nor fal- 
tered, 
As if age had forgone its usurpature. 
And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, 
And the face looked quite of another nature, 
And the change reached, too, whatever the 

change meant, 
Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: 
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges. 
Gold coins were glittering on the edges, 
Like the band-roll strung with tomans 
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's; 
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly 

4 



50 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 
Live and aware looked out of their places. 
So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry, 
Of the lady's chamber standing sentry. 
I told the command and produced my compan- 
ion, 
And Jacynth rejoiced, she said, to admit any 

one, 
For since last night, by the same token. 
Not a single word had the lady spoken. 
They went in both to the presence together, 
While I in the balcony watched the weather. 

xV 

And now, what took place at the very first of 

all, 
I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: 
Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall 
On that little head of hers and burn it 
If she knew how she came to drop so soundly 
Asleep of a sudden, and there continue 
The whole time, sleeping as profoundly 
As one of the boars my father would pin you 
'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, 
— Jacynth, forgive me, the comparison! 
But vvhere I begin my own narration 
Is a little after I took my station 
To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, 
And, having in those days a falcon eye, 
To follow the hunt thro' the open country, 
From where the bushes thinlier crested 
The hillocks, to a plain where 's not one tree. 
When, in a moment, my ear was arrested 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 51 

By— was it singing, or was it saying, ^ 

Or a strange musical instrument playing 

In the chamber?— and, to be certain, 

I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, 

And there lay Jacynth asleep, 

Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, 

In a rosy sleep along the floor 

With her head against the door; 

While in the midst, on the seat of state. 

Was a queen — the Gipsy woman late, 

With head and face downbent 

On the lady's head and face intent: 

For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease. 

The lady sat between her knees, 

And o'er them the lady clasped hands met, 

And on those hands her chin was set, 

And her upturned face met the face of the crone 

Wherein the eyes had grown and grown 

As if she could double and quadruple 

At pleasure the play of either pupil 

Very like, by her hands' slow fanning. 

As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers 
They moved to measure, or like bell-clappers. 
I said, *'Is it blessing, is it banning, 
"Do they applaud you or burlesque you — 
"Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?" 
But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue. 
At once I was stopped by the lady's expression: 
For it was life her eyes were drinking 
From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, 
— Life's pure fire, received without shrinking, 
Into the heart and breast whose heaving 
Told you no single drop they were leaving, 
— Life, that filling her, passed redoundant 



52 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Into her very hair, back swerving 

Over each shoulder, loose and abundant. 

As her head thrown back showed the white 

throat curving; 
And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, 
Moving to the mystic measure. 
Bounding as the bosom bounded. 
I stopped short, more and more confounded. 
As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, 
As she listened and she listened. 
When all at once a hand detained me, 
The selfsame contagion gained me. 
And I kept time to the wondrous chime. 
Making out words and prose and rhyme. 
Till it seemed that the music furled 
Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped 
From under the words it first had propped. 
And left them midway in the world. 
Word took word as hand takes hand, 
I could hear at last, and understand ; 
And when I held the unbroken thread, 
The Gipsy said : — 

' 'And so at last we find my tribe, 
"And so I set thee in the midst, 
"And to one and all of them describe 
"What thou saidst and what thou didst, 
"Our long and terrible journey through, 
"And all thou art ready to say and do 

"In the trials that remain. 
"I trace them the vein and the other vein 
"That meet on thy brow and part again 
"Making our rapid mystic mark; 
"And I bid my people prove and probe 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 53 

*'Each eye's profound and glorious globe 

''Till they detect the kindred spark 

"In those depths so dear and dark, 

*'Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, 

* 'Circling over the midnight sea. 

"And on that round young cheek of thine 

*'I make them recognize the tinge, 

"As when of the costly scarlet wine 

"They drip so much as will impinge 

"And spread in a thinnest scale afloat 

"One thick gold drop from the olive's coat 

"Over a silver plate whose sheen 

"Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. 

"For so I prove thee, to one and all, 

"Fit, when my people ope their breast, 

"To see the sign, and hear the call, 

"And take the vow, and stand the test 

"Which adds one more child to the rest — 

"When the breast is bare and the arms are 

wide, 
"And the world is left outside. 
"For there is probation to decree, 
"And many and long must the trials be 
"Thou shalt victoriously endure, 
"If that brow is true and those eyes are sure. 
"Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay 
"Of the prize he dug from its mountain-tomb, — 
"Let once the vindicating ray 
"Leap out amid the anxious gloom, 
"And steel and fire have done their part, 
"And the prize falls on its finder's heart: 
"So, trial after trial past, 
"Wilt thou fall at the very last 
"Breathless, half in trance 



64 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"With the thrill of the j^freat deliverance, 

''Into our arms for evermore; 

"And thou shalt know, those arms once curled 

"About thee, what we knew before, 

"How love is the only good in the world. 

"Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 

"Or brain devise, or hand approve! 

"Stand up, look below, 

"It is our life at thy feet we throw 

"To step with into light and joy; 

"Not a power of life but we employ 

"To satisfy thy nature's want. 

"Art thou the tree that props the plant, 

"Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree — 

"Canst thou help us, must we help thee? 

"If any two creatures grew into one, 

"They would do more than the world has done ; 

"Though each apart were never so weak, 

"Yet through the world should we vainly seek 

*'For the sum of knowledge and the might 

** Which in such union grew their right: 

*'So, to approach at least that end, 

*'And blend, — as much as may be, blend 

*'Thee with us or us with thee, — 

**As climbing plant or propping tree, 

*' Shall some one deck thee over and down, 

*'Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? 

*'Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown, 

*'Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, 

*'Die on thy boughs and disappear 

"While not a leaf of thine is sere? 

"Or is the other fate in store, 

"And art thou fitted to adore, 

**To give thy wondrous self away, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 55 

"And take a stronger nature's sway? 

"I foresee and I could foretell 

"Thy future portion, sure and well: 

*'But those passionate eyes speak true, speak 

true, 
"Let them say what thou shalt do! 
"Only be sure thy daily life, 
"In its peace or in its strife, 
"Never shall be unobserved; 
"We pursue thy whole career, 
"And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, 
"Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, 
"We are beside thee in all thy ways, 
"With our blame, with our praise, 
"Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 
"Glad, angry — but indifferent, no! 
"Whether it be thy lot to go, 
"For the good of us all, w^here the haters 

meet, 
"In the crowded city's horrible street; 
"Or thou step alone through the lone morass 
"Wliere never sound yet was 
"Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, 
"For the air is still, and the water still, 
"When the blue breast of the dripping coot 
"Dives under, and all is mute. 
"So, at the last shall come old age, 
"Decrepit as befits that stage; 
"How else wouldst thou retire apart 
"With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 
"And gather all to the very least 
"Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, 
"Let fall through eagerness to find 
"The crowning dainties yet behind? 



56 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"Ponder on the entire past 

"Laid together thus at last, 

"When the twilight helps to fuse 

"The first fresh with the faded hues, 

"And the outline of the whole, 

"As round eve's shades their framework roll, 

"Grandly fronts for once thy soul! 

"And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 

"Of yet another morning breaks, 

"And like the hand which ends a dream, 

"Death, with the might of his sunbeam, 

"Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes, 

"Then—" 

Ay, then indeed something would 
happen ! 
But what? For here her voice changed like a 

bird's; 
There grew more of the music and less of tha 

words. 
Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen 
To paper and put you down every syllable 
With these clever clerky fingers, 
All I've forgotten as well as what lingers 
In this old brain of mine that's but ill able 
To give you even the poorest version 
Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stam- 
mering I 
— More fault of those who had the hammering 
Of prosody into me and syntax. 
And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks! 
But to return from this excursion, — 
Just, do you mark, when the song was sweet- 
est. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 67 

The piece most deep and the charm completest, 

There came, shall I say, a snap — 

And the charm vanished ! 

And my sense returned, so strangely banished, 

And, starting as from a nap, 

I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, 

With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring 

made I 
Down from the casement, round to the por- 
tal,— 
Another minute and I had entered, — 
W^hen the door opened, and more than mortal 
Stood, with a face where to my mind centred 
All beauties I ever saw or shall see. 
The Duchess : I stopped as if struck by palsy. 
She was so different, happy and beautiful, 
I felt at once that all was best. 
And that I had nothing to do, for the rest. 
But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. 
Not that, in fact, there was any commanding; 
I saw the glory of her eye, 
And the brow's height and the breast's ex- 
panding, 
And I was hers to live or to die. 
As for finding what she wanted, 
You know God Almighty granted 
Such little signs should serve wild creatures 
To tell one another all their desires. 
So that each knows what his friend requires, 
And does its bidding without teachers. 
I preceded her; the crone 
Followed silent and alone; 
I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered 
In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk 



58 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Back to their pits; her stature shrunk; 

In short, the soul in its body sunk 

Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. 

We descended, I preceding; 

Crossed the court with nobody heeding; 

All the world was at the chase, 

The court-yard like a desert place, 

The stable emptied of its small fry. 

I saddled myself the very palfry 

I remember patting while it carried her. 

The day she arrived and the Duke married 

her, 
And, do you know, though it's easy deceiving 
Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing 
The lady had not forgotten it either. 
And knew the poor devil so much beneath her 
Would have been only too glad, for her ser- 
vice. 
To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk 

■ dervise, 
But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, 
Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing 

it. 
For thouofh, the moment I began setting 
His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, 
(Not that I meant to be obtrusive) 
She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, 
By a single rapid finger's lifting. 
And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, 
And with a little shake of the head, refused 

me, — 
I say, although she never used me, 
Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind 
her. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 59 

And I ventured to remind her, 
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness 
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, 
— Something to the effect that I was in read- 
iness 
Whenever God should please she needed m.e, — 
Then, do you know, her face looked down on 

me 
With a look, a look that placed a crown on me. 
And she felt in her bosom, —mark, her bosom — 
And, as a fiower-tree drops its blossom, 
Dropped me . . ah, had it been a purse 
Of silver, my friend, or gold, that's worse, 
AVhy, you see, as soon as 1 found myself 
So understood, — that a true heart so may gain 
Such a reward, — I should have gone home 

again, 
Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! 
It was a little plait of hair 
Such as friends in a convent make 
To wear, each for the other's sake, — 
This, see, which at my breast I wear, 
Ever did (rather to Jacynth 's grudgment), 
And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. 
And then, — and then,— to cut short, — this is 

idle, 
These, are feelings it is not good to foster, — 
I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, 
And the palfrey bounded,— and so we lost her. 



XVI 

When the liquor's out why clink the cannikin? 
I did think to describe you the panic in 



60 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The redoubtable breast of our master the 

mannikin, 
And what was the pitch of his mother's yel- 
lowness, 
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare- 
rib 
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving 

Carib, 
When she heard what she called the flight of 

the feloness 
— But it seems such child's play, 
What they said and did with the lady away! 
And to dance on, when we've lost the music, 
Always made me — and no doubt makes you — 

sick. 
Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so 

stern 
As that sweet form disappeared through the 

postern. 
She that kept it in constant good humor. 
It ought to have stopped; there seemed noth- 
ing to do more. 
But the world thought otherwise and went on. 
And my head's one that its spite was spent 

on: 
Thirty years are fled since that morning, 
And with them all my head's adorning. 
Nor did the old Duchess die outright. 
As you expect, of suppressed spite. 
The natural end of every adder 
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: 
But she and her son agreed, I take it, 
That no one should touch on the story to wake 
it. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 61 

For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled 

fiery; 
So, they made no search and small inquiry: 
And when fresh Gipsies had paid us a visit, 

I've 
Noticed the couple were never inquisitive, 
But told them they 're folks the Duke don't 

want here. 
And bade them make haste and cross the 

frontier. 
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke 

was glad of it, 
And the old one was in the young one's stead, 
And took, in her place, the household's head, 
And a blessed time the household had of it! 
And were I not, as a man may say, cautious 
How I trench, more than needs, on the nause- 
ous, 
I could favor you with sundry touches 
Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess 
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yel- 
lowness 
(To get on faster) until at last her 
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 
Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: 
In short, she grew from scalp to udder 
Just the object to make you shudder. 



XVII 

You're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world without end! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up 

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet. 



62 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sun- 
lit, 
Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, 
Cotnar as old as the time of the druids — 
Friendship may match with that monarch of 

.fluids; 
Each supplies a dry brain, fills you its ins-and- 

outs, 
Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the 

thia sand doubts 
Whether to run on or stop short, and guaran- 
tees 
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant 

ease. 
I have seen my little lady once more, 
Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and the rest of it, 
For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you be- 
fore; 
I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: 
And now it is made — why, my heart's blood, 

that went trickle, 
Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, 
Is pumped up brisk now, through the main 

ventricle. 
And genially floats me about the giblets. 
I'll tell you what I intend to do: 
I must see this fellow his sad life through — 
He is our Duke, after all, 
And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. 
My father was born here, and I inherit 
His fame, a chain he bound his son with; 
Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it. 
But there's no mine to blow up and get done 
with: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 63 

So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. 

For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter. 

Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, 

Some day or other his head in a morion 

And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick 
up 

Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. 

And then, when red doth the sword of our 
Duke rust, 

And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a 
blue crust. 

Then I shall scrape together my earnings; 

For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth re- 
poses. 

And our children all went the way of the 
roses ; 

It's a long lane that knows no turnings. 

One needs but little tackle to travel in ; 

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: 

And for a staff, what beats the javelin 

With which his boars my father pinned you? 

And then, for a purpose you shall hear pres- 
ently. 

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, 

I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly: 

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, 
that's all; 

Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to 
hold: 

When we mind labor, then, then only we're 
too old — 

What age had Methusalem when he begat 
Saul? 



64 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship 

sees, 
(Come all the way from the north-parts with 

sperm oil) 
I hope to get safely out of the turmoil 
And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies, 
And find my lady, or hear the last news of her 
From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 
His forehead chapleted green with wreathy 

hop, 
Sunburned all over like an ^thiop. 
And when my Cotnar begins to operate 
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper 

rate. 
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each 

flaccid dent, 
I shall drop in with — as if by accident — 
"You never knew then, how it all ended, 
*'What fortune good or bad attended 
*'The little lady our Queen befriended?" 
— And when that's told me, what's remaining? 
This world's too hard for my explaining. 
The same wise judge of matters equine 
Who still preferred some slim four-year-old 
To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, 
And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak 

wine, 
He also must be such a lady's scorner! 
Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau : 
Now up, now down, the world's one see saw. 
— So, I shall find out some snug corner 
Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight. 
Turn myself round and bid the world good- 
night; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 65 

And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's 

blowing 
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) 
To a world where will be no further throwing 
Pearls before swine that can't value them 

Amen! 

SONG FROM ''PIPPA PASSES." 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn; 
God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world. 

^•HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 

NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." 

[i6-.] 

I 

I sprang to the stirrup, and J oris, and he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
three ; 

**Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate- 
bolts undrew ; 

** Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 
through ; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 
rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

5 Browning 



66 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



II 



Not a word to each other ; we kept the great 

pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing 

our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths 

tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 

right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the 

bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

Ill 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew 

near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 

clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Duff eld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard 

the half-chime. 
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is 

time!" 

IV 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every 

one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its 

spray : 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 67 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear 

bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 

track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that 

glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 

askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye 

and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

VI 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 
"Stay spur! 

"Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not 
in her, 

"We'll remember at Aix"— for one heard the 
quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and stag- 
gering knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and 
sank. 

VII 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the 

sky; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble 

like chaff: 



68 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 

white, 
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in 

sight ! 

VIII 

"How they'll greet us!" — and all is a moment 

his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a 

stone 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole 

weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from 

her fate. 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the 

brim. 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' 

rim. 



IX 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let 

fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and 

all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 

without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any 

noise, bad or good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and 

stood. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 69 



And all I remember is, friends flocking round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt m)^ knees on the 
ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of 
mine, 

As I poured down this throat our last measure 
of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common con- 
sent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good 
news from Ghent. 

SONG FROM *'PARACELSUS." 
I 
Heap cassia, sandal -buds and stripes 

Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, 
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
From out her hair: such balsam falls 
Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 
From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, 
Spent with the vast and howling main, 
To treasure half their island gain. 

II 

And strew faint sweetness from some old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
From closet long to quiet vowed, 
With mothed and dropping arras hung. 
Mouldering her lute and books among, 
As when a queen, long dead, was young. 



70 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL- 

KADR. 

1842. 

I 

As I ride, as I ride, 

With a full heart for my guide, 

So its tide rocks my side, 

As I ride, as I ride. 

That, as I were double-eyed. 

He, in whom our Tribes confide, 

Is descried, ways untried 

As I ride, as I ride. 



As I ride, as I ride, 

To our Chief and his Allied, 

Who dares chide my heart's pride 

As I ride, as I ride? 

Or are witnesses denied — 

Through the desert waste and wide 

Do I glide unespied 

As I ride, as I ride? 

Ill 

As I ride, as I ride. 

When an inner voice has cried, 

The sands slide, nor abide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

O'er each visioned homicide 

That came vaunting (has he lied?) 

To reside — where he died. 

As I ride, as I ride. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 71 

IV 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, 

Yet his hide, streaked and pied. 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Shows where sweat has sprung- anddried, 

— Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed — 

How has vied stride with stride 

As I ride, as I ride. 



As I ride, as I ride. 

Could I loose what Fate has tied, 

Ere I pried, she should hide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

All that's meant me — satisfied 

When the Prophet and the Bride 

Stop veins I'd have subsifle 

As I ride, as I ride ! 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 



You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away 
On a little mound. Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out- thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 



72 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



II 



Just as perhaps he mused "My plans 

"That soar, to earth may fall, 
"Let once my army leader Lannes 

"Waver at yonder wall — " 
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 



Ill 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 



IV 

*'Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's 
grace 

"We've got you Ratisbon! 
"The Marshal's in the market-place, 

"And you'll be there anon 
"To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

"Where I, to heart's desire, 
*'Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; 
his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 73 



The chief's eye flashed; but presently- 
Softened itself, as sheathes 

A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes. 

"You're wounded!"' "Nay," the soldier's 
pride 
Touched to the quick, he said : 

"I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside, 
Smiling the boy fell dead. 

THE LOST LEADER. 



Just for a handful of silver he left us. 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others, she lets us devote; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out sil- 
ver, 
So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his service! 
Rags — were they purple, his heart had been 
proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, hon- 
ored him, 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear 
accents, 
Made him our pattern to live and to die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch 
from their graves! 

6 Browning 



74 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! 

II 

We shall march prospering, — not thro' his 
presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quies- 
cence, 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade as, 
pire. 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul 
more. 
One task more declined, one more footpath 
untrod. 
One more devil's triumph and sorrow for 
angels, 
One wrong more to man, one more insult to 
God! 
Life's night begins; let him never come back 
to us! 
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twi- 
light. 
Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike 
gallantly, 
Menace our heart ere we master his own; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and 
wait us. 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 75 

IN A GONDOLA. 
He sings. 

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart 

In this my singing. 
For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; 

The very night is clinging 
Closer to Venice's streets to leave one space 

Above me, whence thy face 
May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling- 
place. 

She speaks. 

Say after me, and try to say 
My very words, as if each word 
Came from you of your own accord. 
In your own voice, in your own way: 
"This woman's heart and soul and brain 
"Are mine as much as this gold chain 
"She bids me wear; which" (say again) 
"I choose to make by cherishing 
"A precious thing, or choose to fling 
"Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 
And yet once more say ... no word more! 
Since words are only words. Give o'er! 

Unless you call me, all the same, 

Familiarly by my pet name. 

Which if the Three should hear you call, 

And me reply to, would proclaim 

At once our secret to them all. 

Ask of me, too, command me, blame — 

Do, break down the partition- wall 

'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds 



76 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! 
What's left but — all of me to take? 
I am the Three's: prevent them, slake 
Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage 
In practicing with gems, can loose 
Their subtle spirit in his cruce 
And leave but ashes; so, sweet mage, 
Leave them my ashes when thy use 
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage! 

He sings. 



Past we glide, and past, and past! 

What's that poor Agnese doing 
Where they make the shutters fast? 

Grey Zanobi's just a- wooing 
To his couch the purchased bride: 

Past we glide ! 



Past we glide, and past, and past! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring 
Like a beacon to the blast? 

Guests by hundreds, not one caring 
If the dear host's neck were wried: 

Past we glide ! 

She sings. 



The moth's kiss, first! 

Kiss me as if you made believe 

You were not sure, this eve, 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 77 

Its petals up ; so, here and there 
You brush it, till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 



The bee's kiss, now! 
Kiss me as if you entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, — 
A bud that dares not disallow 
The claim, so, all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 

He sings. 



What are we two? 
I am a Jew, 

And carry thee, farther than friends can pur- 
sue. 
To a feast of our tribe ; 
Where they need thee to bribe 
The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe 
Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever! And now. 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 



Say again, what we are? 
The sprite of a star, 

I lure thee above where the destinies bar 
My plumes their full play 
Till a ruddier ray 

Than my pale one announce there is withering 
away 



78 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Some . . . Scatter the vision forever! And 

now, 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 

He muses. 

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? 
The land's lap or the water's breast? 
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 
Or swim in lucid shallows, just 
Eluding water-lily leaves. 
An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust 
To lock you, whom release he must; 
Which life were best on Summer eves? 

He speaks, musing. 

Lie back ; could thought of mine improve you? 

From this shoulder let there spring 

A wing ; from this, another wing ; 

Wings; not legs and feet, shall move you; 

Snow-white must they spring, to blend 

With your flesh, but I intend 

They shall deepen to the end. 

Broader, into burning gold. 

Till both wings crescent- wise enfold 

Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet 

To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet 

As if a million sword-blades hurled 

Defiance from you to the world! 

Rescue me thou, the only real ! 

And scare away this mad ideal 

That came, nor motions to depart! 

Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 79 

Still he muses. 



What if the Three should catch at last 
Thy serenader? While there's cast 
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
Gian pinions me, Himself has past 
His stylet through my back; I reel; 
And ... is it thou I feel? 



They trail me, these three godless knaves, 
Past every church that saints and saves. 
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 
By Lido's wet accursed graves, 
They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 
And ... on thy breast I sink ! 

She replies, musing. 

I 

Dip your arm o'er the boat side, elbow-deep, 
As I do; thus; were death so unlike sleep, 
Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame 

or steel, 
Or poison doubtless ; but from water — feel ! 

II 

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? 

There ! 
Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon grass 
To plait in where the foolish jewel was, 
I flung away ; since you have praised my hair, 
*Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. 



80 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

He speaks. 

Row home? must we row home? Too surely 

Know I where its front's demurely 

Over the Guidecca piled ; 

Window just with window mating, 

Door on door exactly waiting, 

All's the set face of a child: 

But behind it, where *s trace 

Of the staidness and reserve. 

And formal lines without a curve, 

In the same child's playing-face? 

No two windows look one way 

O'er the small sea-water thread 

Below them. Ah, the autumn day 

I, passing, saw you overhead! 

First, out a cloud of curtain blew, 

Then a sweet cry, and last came you — 

To catch your lory that must needs 

Escape just then, of all times then, 

To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds 

And make me happiest of men. 

I scarce could breathe to see you reach 

So far back o'er the balcony, 

To catch him ere he climbed too high 

Above you in the Smyrna peach, 

That quick the round smooth cord of gold, 

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled. 

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake 

The Roman girls were wont, of old. 

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake 

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms. 

Dear lory, may his beak retain 

Ever its delicate rose stain. 

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 




We would try and trace one another's face." — Page 84. 

Browning's Poems. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 81 

Had marked their thief to know again. 

Stay longer yet, for others' sake 

Than mine! What should your chamber do? 

— With all its rarities that ache 

In silence while day last, but wake 

At night-time and their life renew, 

Suspended just to pleasure you 

Who brought against their will together 

These objects, and, while day lasts, weave 

Around them such a magic tether 

That dumb, they look : your harp, believe 

With all the sensitive tight strings 

Which dare not speak, now to itself 

Breathes slumbrously, as if some elf 

Went in and out the chords, his wings 

Make murmur, wheresoe'er they graze, 

As an angel may, between the maze 

Of midnight palace-pillars, on 

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone 

Through guilty glorious Babylon. 

And while such murmurs flow, the nymph 

Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell 

As the dry limpet for the lymph 

Come with a tune he knows so well. 

And how your statues' hearts must swell! 

And how your pictures must descend 

To see each other, friend with friend ! 

Oh, could you take them by surprise, 

You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke 

Doing the quaintest courtesies 

To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke! 

And, deeper into her rock den, 

Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 

You'd find retreating from the ken 



82 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser — 
As if the Tizian thinks of her, 
And is not, rather, gravely bent 
On seeing for himself what toys 
Are these, his progeny invent, 
What litter now the board employs 
AVhereon he signed a document 
That got him murdered! Each enjoys 
Its night so well, you cannot break 
The sport up: so, indeed must make 
More stay with me, for others' sake. 

She speaks. 



To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 
Is used to tie the jasmine back 
That overfloods my room with sweets, 
Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 
Isly Zanze! If the ribbon 's black, 
The Three are watching: keep away! 



Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe 

A mesh of water-weeds about 

Its prow, as if he unaware 

Had struck some quay or bridge- foot stair! 

That I may throw a paper out 

As you and he go underneath. 

There's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we. 

Only one minute more to-night with me? 

Resume your past self of a month ago ! 

Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 

The lady with the colder breast than snow. 



BROWNLNG'S POEMS. 83 

Now bow 3^ou, as becomes, nor touch my hand 
More than I touch yours when I step to land. 
Just say, "All thanks, Siora!" — 

Heart to heart 
And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, 
Clasp me, and make me thine, as mine thou 
art! 

He is surprised and stabbed. 

It was ordained to be so, sweet! — and best 
Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy 

breast, 
Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! 
y Care 

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn 
To death, because they never lived : but I 
Have lived indeed, and so — (yet one more 

kiss) — can die! 



A LOVER'S QUARREL. 



Oh, what a dawn of day! 

How the March sun feels like May! 

All is blue again 

After last night's rain, 
And the South dries the hawthorn-spray. 

Only, my Love's away! 
I'd as lief that the blue were gray. 



84 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

^ II 

Runnels, which rillets swell, 
Must be dancing down the dell. 

With a foaming head 

On the beryl bed 
Paven smooth as a hermit's cell: 

Each with a tale to tell, 
Could my love but attend as well. 



Dearest, three months ago! 

When we lived blocked-up with snow, — 

When the wind would edge 

In and in his wedge, 
In, as far as the point could go — 

Not to our ingle, though. 
Where we loved each the other so! 

IV 

Laughs with so little cause ! 
We devised games out of straws. 

We would try and trace 

One another's face 
In the ash, as an artist draws; 

Free on each other's flaws. 
How we chattered like two church daws! 



What 'sin the "Times?"— a scold 
At the Emperor deep and cold : 
He has taken a bride 
To his gruesome side, 
That's as fair as himself is iDold: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 85 

There they sit ermine-stoled, 
And she powders her hair with gold. 

VI 

Fancy the Pampas' sheen ! 

Miles and miles of gold and green 

Where the sunflowers blow 

In a solid glow, 
And to break now and then the screen — 

Black neck and eyeballs keen, 
Up a wild horse leaps between ! 

VII 

Try, will our table turn? 

Lay your hands there light, and yearn 

Till the yearning slips 

Thro' the finger tips 
In a fire which a few discern. 

And a very few feel burn. 
And the rest, they may live and learn. 

VIII 

Then we would up and pace. 
For a change, about the place. 

Each with arm o'er neck: 

'Tis our quarter-deck, 
We are seamen in woful case. 

Help in the ocean-space! 
Or, if no help, we'll embrace. 

IX 

See how she looks now, dressed 
In a sledging cap and vest! 

'T is a huGfe fur cloak — 



86 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Like a reindeer's roke 
Falls the lappet along- the breast: 

Sleeves for her arms to rest, 
Or to hang, as my Love likes best. 



Teach me to flirt a fan 

As the Spanish ladies can. 
Or I tint your lip 
With a burnt stick's tip 

And you turn into such a man! 

Just the two spots that span 

Half the bill of the young male swan. 



XI 

Dearest, three months ago, 
When the mesmerizer Snow 

With his hand's first sweep 

Put the earth to sleep, 
'T was a time when the heart could show 

All — how was earth to know, 
'Neath the mute hand's to-and-for? 



XII 

Dearest, three months ago, 

When we loved each other so. 

Lived and loved the same 
Till an evening came 

When a shaft from the devil's bow 
Pierced to our ingle-glow, 

And the friends were friend and foe! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 87 

XIII 

Not from the heart beneath — 
'T was a bubble born of breath, 

Neither sneer nor vaunt, 

Nor reproach nor taunt. 
See a word, how it severeth ! 

Oh, power of life and death 
In the tongue, as the Preacher saith! 

XIV 

Woman, and will you cast 
For a word, quite off at last 

Me, your own, 5^our You, — 

Since, as truth is true, 
I was You all the happy past — 

Me do you leave aghast 
With the memories We amassed? 

XV 

Love, if you knew the light 
That your soul casts in my sight, 

How I look to you 

For the pure and true. 
And the beauteous and the right, — 

Bear with a moment's spite 
When a mere mote threats the white! 

XVI 

What of a hasty word? 

In the fleshy heart not stirred 

By a worm's pin-prick 

Where its roots are quick? 



88 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

See the eye, by a fly's foot blurred — 

Ear, when a straw is heard 
Scratch the brain's coat of curd! 

XVII 

Foul be the world or fair 

More or less, how can I care? 
*T is the world the same 
For my praise or blame, 

And endurance is easy there. 

Wrong in the one thing rare — 

Oh, it is hard to bear! 

XVIII 

Here 's the spring back or close, 
When the almond-blossom blows; 

We shall have the word 

In a minor third 
There is none but the cuckoo knows: 

Heaps of the guelder rose ! 
I must bear with it, I suppose. 

XIX 

Could but November come, 
Were the noisy birds struck dumb 

At the warning slash 

Of his driver's-lash — 
I would laugh like the valiant Thumb 

Facing the castle glum 
And the giant's fee-faw-fum! 

XX 

Then, were the world well-stripped 
Of the gear wherein equipped 



BROWNIKG'S POEMS. 89 

We can stand apart, 

Heart dispense with heart 
In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,— 

Oh, the world's hang-ings ripped, 
We were both in a bare- walled crypt! 

XXI 

Each in the crypt would cry 
*'But one freezes here! and why? 
''When a heart, as chill, 

"At my own would thrill 
"Back to life, and its fires out-fly? 

"Heart, shall we live or die? 
"The rest . . settle by-and-by!" 

XXII 

So, she 'd efface the score, 
And forgive me as before. 

It is twelve o'clock: 

I shall hear her knock 
In the worst of a storm's uproar: 

I shall pull her through the door, 
I shall have her for evermore ! 

EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. 

FAME. 

See, as the prettiest graves will do in time, 
Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime; 
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods 
Have struggled through its binding osier rods; 
Headstone and half -sunk footstone lean awry, 
Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by; 
How the minute grey lichens, plate o'er plate, 



90 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Have softened down the crisp-cut name and 
date ! 

LOVE. 

So, the year 's done with! 

(Love me for ever!) 
All March begun with, 

April's endeavor; 
May- wreaths that bound me, 

June needs must sever; 
Now snows fall round me, 

Quenching June's fever — 

(Love me for ever!) 

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 



I said — Then, dearest, since 't is so, 
Since now at length my fate I know. 
Since nothing all my love avails. 
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, 

Since this was written and needs must be- 
My whole heart rises up to bless 
Your name in pride and thankfulness! 
Take back the hope 3'ou gave, — I claim 
Only a memory of the same, 
— And this beside, if you will not blame, 

Your leave for one more last ride with me. 



My mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs 
When pity would be softening through. 
Fixed me a breathing-while or two 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 91 

With life or death in the balance : right ! 
The blood replenished me again; 
My last thought was at least not vain : 
I and my mistress, side by side 
Shall be together, breathe and ride, 
So, one day more am I deified. 

Who knows but the world may end to-night? 

Ill 

Hush ! if you saw some western cloud 

All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 

By many benedictions — sun's 

And moon's and evening star's at once — 

And so, you, looking and loving best. 
Conscious grew, your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
Down on you, near and yet more near, 
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear! 

Thus lay she a moment on my breast. 

IV 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll 
Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 

What need to strive with a life awry? 
Had I said that, had I done this. 
So might I gain, so might I miss. 
Might she have loved me? just as well 
She might have hated, who can tell! 
Where had I been now if the worst befell? 

And here we are riding, she and I. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 
Why, all men strive and who succeeds? 
We rode ; it seemed my spirit flew, 
Saw other regions, cities new, 

As the world rushed by on either side. 
I thought, — All labor, yet no less 
Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at the end of work, contrast 
The petty done, the undone vast, 
This present of theirs with the hopeful past! 

I hoped she would love me ; here we ride. 

VI 

W"hat hand and brain went ever paired? 
What heart alike conceived and dared? 
What act proved all its thought had been? 
W^hat will but felt the fleshy screen? 

W^e ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There's many a crown for who can reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! 
The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 
A soldier's doing! what atones? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 

My riding is better, by their leave. 

VII 

What doth it all mean, poet? Well, 
Your brains beat into i*bythm, you tell 
What we felt only; you expressed 
You hold things beautiful the best. 

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 
'T is something, nay 't is much: but then. 
Have you yourself what 's best for men? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 93 

Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 
Than we who have never turned a rhyme! 
Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride. 

VIII 

And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave. 
And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine? 
What, man of music, you grown grey 
With notes and nothing else to say, 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
''Greatly his opera's strains intend, 
"But in music we know how fashions end!" 

I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine. 

IX 

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — 
Still one must lead some life beyond. 

Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
This foot once planted on the goal. 
This glory-garland round my soul, 
Could I descry such? Try and test! 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? 

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. 



And yet — she has not spoke so long! 
What if heaven be that, fair and strong 



94 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

At life's best, with our eyes upturned 
Whither life's flower is first discerned, 

We, fixed so, ever should so abide? 
What if we still ride on, we two. 
With life for ever old yet new. 
Changed not in kind but in degree. 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 

Ride ride together, forever ride? 



MESMERISM. 



All I believed is true ! 

I am able yet 

All I want, to get 
By a method as strange as new: 
Dare I trust the same to you? 

II 

If at night, when doors are shut, 
And the wood-worm picks, 
And the death-watch ticks, 
And the bar has a flag of smut. 
And a cat's in the water-butt — 

III 

And the socket floats and flares. 

And the house-beams groan, 
And a foot unknown 
Is surmised on the garret-stairs, 
And the locks slip unawares — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 95 



IV 



And the spider, to serve his ends, 
By a sudden thread, 
Arms and legs outspread. 

On the table's midst descends. 

Comes to find, God knows what friends!- 



If since eve drew in, I say, 
I have sat and brought 
(So to speak) my thought 
To bear on the woman away, 
Till I felt my hair turn grey — 

VI 

Till I seemed to have and hold, 
In the vacancy 
'Twixt the wall and me 
From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold 
To the foot in its muslin fold — 

VII 

Have and hold, then and there. 
Her, from head to foot 
Breathing and mute, 

Passive and yet aware, 

In the grasp of my steady stare — 

VIII 

Hold and have, there and then, 
All her body and soul 
That completes my whole, 
All that women add to men, 
In the clutch of my steady ken — 



96 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

IX 

Having and holding, till 

I imprint her fast 

On the void at last 
As the sun does whom he will 
By the calotypist's skill- 



Then, — if my heart's strength serve 
And through all and each 
Of the veils I reach 

To her soul and never swerve 

Knitting an iron nerve — 

XI 

Command her soul to advance 
And inform the shape 
Which has made escape 
And before my countenance 
Answers me glance for glance — 

XII 

I, still with a gesture fit 

Of my hands that best 

Do my soul's behest, 
Pointing the power from it, 
While myself do steadfast sit — 

XIII 

Steadfast and still the same 
On my object bent, 
While the hands give vent 
To my ardor and my aim 
And break into very flame — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 97 



XIV 



Then I reach, I must believe, 

Not her soul in vain, 

For to me again 
It reaches, and past retrieve 
Is wound in the toils I weave ; 

XV 

And must follow as I require, 

As befits a thrall, 

Bringing flesh and all. 
Essence and earth-attire, 
To the source of the tractile fire : 

XVI 

Till the house called hers, not mine, 

With a growing weight 

Seems to suffocate 
If she break not its leaden line 
And escape from its close confine. 

XVII 

Out of doors into the night ! 
On to the maze 
Of the wild wood- ways. 
Not turning to left nor right 
From the pathway, blind with sight- 

XVIII 

Making thro' rain and wind 
O'er the broken shrubs, 
'Twixt the stems and stubs, 
With a still, composed, strong mind, 
Not a care for the world behind — 

7 Browning 



98 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

XIX 

Swifter and still more swift, 

As the crowding peace 

Doth to joy increase 
In the wide blind eyes uplift 
Thro* the darkness and the drift ! 

XX 

While I — to the shape, I too 

Feel my soul dilate : 

Nor a whit abate. 
And relax not a gesture due. 
As I see my belief come true. 

XXI 

For, there ! have I drawn or no 

Life to that lip? 

Do my fingers dip 
In a flame which again they throw 
On the cheek that breaks a-glow? 

XXII 

Ha! was the hair so first? 

What, unfilleted, 

Made alive, and spread 
Through the void with a rich outburst, 
Chestnut gold-interspersed? 

XXIII 

Like the doors of a casket-shrine, 

See, on either side. 

Her two arms divide 
Till the heart betwixt makes sign, 
*'Take me, for I am thine?" 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 99 



XXIV 

'*Now — now" — the door is heard! 

Hark, the stairs! and near — 

Nearer — and here — 
"Now!" and, at call the third, 
She enters without a word. 

XXV 

On doth she march and on 
To the fancied shape ; 
It is, past escape. 
Herself, now : the dream is done 
And the shadow and she are one. 

XXVI 

First, I will pray. Do thou 
That ownest the soul, 
Yet wilt grant control 
To another, nor disallow 
For a time, restrain me now! 

XXVII 

I admonish me while I may, 
Not to squander guilt, 
Since require Thou wilt 

At my hand its price one day! 

What the price is, who can say? 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 

How well I know what I mean to do 

When the long dark autumn evenings come 

LofC. 



100 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? 
With the music of all thy voices, dumb 
In life's November too! 



I shall be found by the fire, suppose, 

O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age; 

While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, 
And I turn the page, and I turn the page, 

Not verse now, only prose ! 

Ill 

Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, 
"There he is at it, deep in Greek 

"Now then, or never, out we slip 
"To cut from the hazels by the creek 

"A mainmast for our ship!" 

IV 

I shall be at it indeed, my friends ! 

Greek puts already on either side 
Such a branch-work forth as soon extends 

To a vista opening far and wide. 
And I pass out where it ends. 



The outside frame, like your hazel-trees — 
But the inside-archway widens fast, 

And a rarer sort succeeds to these. 
And we slope to Italy at last 

And youth, by green degrees. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 101 

VI 

I follow wherever I am led, 

Knowing so well the leader's hand 

Oh woman-country, wooed not wed, 

Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, 

Laid to their hearts instead ! 

VII 

Look at the ruined chapel again 
Half-way up in the Alpine gorge! 

Is that a tower, I point you plain. 
Or is it a mill, or an iron forge 

Breaks solitude in vain? 

VIII 

A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; 

The woods are round us, heaped and dim ; 
From slab to slab how it slips and springs. 

The thread of water single and slim. 
Through the ravage some torrent brings! 

IX 

Does it feed the little lake below? 

The speck of white just on its marge 
Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow. 

How sharp the silver spear-heads charge 
When Alp meets heaven in snow ! 

X 

On our other side is the straight-up rock; 

And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it 
By boulder-stones where lichens mock 

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit 
Their teeth to the polished block. 



102 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XI 

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers, 
And thorny balls, each three in one, 

The chestnuts throw on our path in showers! 
For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun. 

These early November hours, 

XII 

That crimson the creeper's leaf across 
Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt. 

O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss. 
And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled mat of moss, 

XIII 

By the rose-flush mushrooms, undivulged 
Last evening — nay, in to-day's first dew 

Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, 

Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew 

Of toad-stools peep indulged. 

XIV 

And yonder, at the foot of the fronting ridge 
That takes the turn to a range beyond. 

Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge, 
Where the water is stopped in a stagnant 
pond 

Danced over by the midge. 

XV 

The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, 

Blackish-grey and mostly wet ; 
Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 103 

See here again, how the lichens fret 
And the roots of the ivy strike ! 

XVI 

Poor little place, where its one priest comes 
On a festa-day, if he comes at all. 

To the dozen folk from their scattered homes, 
Gathered within that precinct small 

By the dozen ways one roams — 

XVII 

To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, 
Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed. 

Leave the grange where the woodman stores 
his huts, 
Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread 

Their gear on the rock's bare juts. 

XVIII 

It has some pretension too, this front, 
With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise 

Set over the porch, Art's early wont 
'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, 

But has borne the weather's brunt — 

XIX 

Not from the fault of the builder, though, 
For a pent-house properly projects 

Where three carved beams make a certain 
show. 
Dating— good thought of our architect's — 

Five, six, nine, he lets you know. 



104 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XX 

And all day long a bird sings there, 

And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at 
times ; 

The place is silent and aware ; 

It has its scenes, its joys and crimes, 

But that is its own affair. 

XXI 

My perfect wife, my Leonor, 

Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too. 

Whom else could I dare look forward for, 
With whom beside should I dare pursue 

The path grey heads abhor? 

XXII 

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; 

Youth, flowery all the way, there stops — 
Not they; age threatens and they contemn, 

Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, 
One inch from our life's safe hem! 

XXIII 

With me, youth led ... I will speak now, 

No longer watch you as you sit 
Reading by fire-light, that great brow 

And the spirit-small hand propping it, 
Mutely, my heart knows how — 

XXIV 

When, if I think but deep enough, 

You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme ; 
And you, too, find without rebuff 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 105 

Response your soul seeks many a time, 
Piercing its fine flesh -stuff. 

XXV 

My own, confirm me ! If I tread 

This path back, is it not in pride 
To think how little I dreamed it led 

To an age so blest that, by its side, 
Youth seems the waste ipstead? 

XXVI 

My own, see where the years conduct ! 

At first, 'twas something our two souls 
Should mix as mists do; each is sucked 

In each now : on, the new stream rolls. 
Whatever rocks obstruct. 

XXVII 

Think, when our one soul understands 

The great Word which makes all things new. 

When earth breaks up and heaven expands, 
How will the change strike me and you 

In the house not made with hands? 

XXVIII 

Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine. 

Your heart anticipate my heart, 
You must be just before, in fine. 

See and make me see, for your part. 
New depths of the divine ! 

XXIX 

But who could have expected this 
When we two drew together first 

8 Browning 



106 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Just for the obvious human bliss, 

To satisfy life's daily thirst 
With a thing men seldom miss? 

XXX 

Come back with me to the first of all, 
Let us lean and love it over again, 

Let us now forget and now recall, 
Break the rosary in a pearly rain, 

And gather what we let fall! 

XXXI 

What did I say? — that a small bird sings 
All day long, save when a brown pair 

Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings 
Strained to a bell : 'gainst noon-day glare 

You count the streaks and rings. 

XXXII 

But at afternoon or almost eve 

'Tis better; then the silence grows 

To that degree, you half believe 
It must get rid of what it knows, 

Its bosom does so heave. 

XXXIII 

Hither we walked then, side by side. 

Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, 
And still I questioned or replied. 

While my heart, convulsed to really speak. 
Lay choking in its pride. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 107 



XXXIV 



Silent the crumbling bridge we cross 
And pity and praise the chapel sweet 

And care about the fresco's loss, 

And wish for our souls a like retreat, 

And wonder at the moss. 



XXXV 



Stoop and kneel on the settle under. 

Look through the window's grated square 

Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder, 
The cross is down and the altar bare, 

As if thieves don't fear thunder. 



XXXV] 



We stoop and look in through the grate. 
See the little porch and rustic door. 

Read duly the dead builder's date; 

Then cross the bridge that we crossed 
before. 

Take the path again — but wait ! 

XXXVII 

Oh, moment one and infinite! 

The water slips o'er stock and stone; 
The West is tender, hardly bright : 

How grey at once is the evening grown — 
One star, its chrysolite I 

XXXVIII 

We two stood there with never a third, 

But each by each, as each knew well: 
The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, 



108 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The lights and the shades made up a spell 
Till the trouble grew and stirred. 

XXXIX 

Oh, the little more, and how much it is ! 

And the little less, and what worlds away ! 
How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, 

Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, 
And life be a proof of this ! 

XL 

Had she willed it, still had stood the screen 
So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: 

I could fix her face with a guard between, 
And find her soul as when friends confer, 

Friends — lovers that might have been. 

XLI 

For my heart had a touch of the woodland 
time, 

Wanting to sleep now over its best. 
Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime. 

But bring to the last leaf no such test ! 
"Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme. 

XLII 

For a chance to make your little much, 
To gain a lover and lose a friend, 

Venture the tree and a myriad such, 

When nothing you mar but the year can 
mend: 

But a last leaf — fear to touch! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 109 

XLIII 

Yet should it unfasten itself and fall 
Eddying down till it find your face 

At some slight wind — best chance of all! 
Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place 

You trembled to forestall ! 

XLIV 

Worth how well, those dark grey eyes, 
That hair so dark and dear, how worth 

That a man should strive and agonize, 
And taste a veriest hell on earth 

For the hope of such a prize ! 

XLV 

You might have turned and tried a man, 
Set him a space to weary and wear. 

And prove which suited more your plan, 
His best of hope or his worst despair, 

Yet end as he began. 

XLVI 

But you spared me this, like the heart you are, 
And filled my empty heart at a word. 

If two lives join, there is oft a scar, 
They are one and one, with a shadowy third ; 

One near one is too far. 

XLVII 

A moment after, and hands unseen 

Were hanging the night around us fast; 

But we knew that a bar was broken between 
Life and life ; we were mixed at last 

In spite of the mortal screen. 



110 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

XLVIII 

The forests had done it; there they stood; 

We caught for a moment the powers at play: 
They had mingled us so, for once and good, 

Their work was done — we might go or stay, 
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 

XLIX 

How the world is made for each of us! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment's product thus, 

When a soul declares itself — to-wit. 
By its fruit, the thing it does! 

L 

Be hate that fruit or love that fruit 
It forwards the general deed of man : 

And each of the Many helps to recruit 
The life of the race by a general plan; 

Each living his own, to boot. 

LI 

I am named and known by that moment's feat; 

There took my station and degree ; 
So grew my own small life complete, 

As nature obtained her best of me — 
One born to love you, sweet! 

LII 

And to watch you sink by the fireside now 

Back again, as you mutely sit 
Musing by firelight, that great brow 

And the spirit-small hand propping it. 
Yonder, my heart knows how ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. Ill 

LIII 

So, earth has gained by one man the more, 
And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain, 
too; 

And the whole is well worth thinking o'er 
When autumn comes; which I mean to do 

One day, as I said before. 

ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 



My love, this is the bitterest, that thou — 
W^ho art all truth, and who dost love me now 
As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to 

say — 
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me 

still 
A whole long life through, had but love its 

will. 
Would death, that leads me from thee, brook 

delay. 

II 

I have but to be by thee, and thy hand 
W^ill never let mine go, nor heart withstand 

The beating of my heart to reach its place. 
W^hen shall I look for thee and feel thee gone? 
When cry for the old comfort and find none? 

Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy face. 

Ill 

Oh, I should fade — 'tis willed so! Might I save, 
Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave 



112 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Joy to thy sense, for that was precious, too. 
It is not to be gn*anted. But the soul 
Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that 
whole ; 
Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes all things 
new. 

IV 

It would not be because my eye grew dim 
Thod couldst not find ftie love there, thanks to 
Him 
Who never is dishonored in the spark 
Re gave us from his fire of fires, and bade 
Remember whence it sprang, nor be a-fraid 
While that burns on, though all the rest grow 
dark. 



So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and 

clean 
Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne 

Alike, this body given to show it by ! 
Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's 

abyss. 
What plaudits from the next world after this, 
Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky ! 

VI 

And is it not the bitterer to think 

That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink 

Although thy love was love in very deed? 
I know that nature! Pass a festive day, 
Tohu dost not throw its relic-flower away 

Nor bid its music's loitering echo speed. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 113 



VII 



Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it 

fell; 
If old things remain old things all is well, 

For thou art grateful as becomes man best : 
And hadst thou only heard me play one tune, 
Or viewed me from a window, not so soon 
With thee would such things fade as with the 
rest. 

VIII 

I seem to see! We meet and part; 'tis brief; 
The book I opened keeps a folded leaf. 

The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank ; 
That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call : 

And for all this, one little hour to thank ! 

IX 

But now, because the hour through years was 

fixed, 
Because our inmost beings met and mixed, 
Because thou once hast loved me — wilt thou 
dare 
Say to thy soul and Who may list beside, 
"Therefore she is immortally my bride; 

** Chance cannot change my love, nor time 
impair. 

X 

**So, what if in the dusk of life that's left, 
**I, a tired traveler of my sun bereft, 

**Look from my path when, mimicking the 
same, 



114 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

*'The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone? 
" — Where was it till the sunset? where anon 
**It will be at the sunrise ! What's to blame?" 

XI 

Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou take 
The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake, 

Put gently by such efforts at a beam? 
Is the remainder of the way so long, 
Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong? 

Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and 
dream ! 

XII 

— Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true," 
Thou'lt ask, "some eyes are beautiul and new? 
"Some hair, — how can one choose but grasp 
such wealth! 
"And if a man would press his lips to lips 
"Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there 
slips 
"The dew-drop out of, must it be by stealth? 

XIII 

"It cannot change the love still kept for Her 
"More than if such a picture I prefer 

"Passing a day with, to a room's bare side: 
"The painted form takes nothing she possessed, 
"Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, 

"A man looks. Once more, what is there to 
chide?" 

XIV 

So must I see, from where I sit and watch, 
My own self sell myself, my hand attach 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 115 

Its warrant to the very thefts from me — 
Thy singleness of soul that made me proud, 
Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, 

Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see! 

XV 

Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all thou canst 
Away to the new faces — disentranced. 

(Say it and think it) obdurate no more. 
Re-issue looks and words from the old mint, 
Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print 

Image and superscription once they bore ! 

XVI 

Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend, — 
It all comes to the same thing at the end, 
Since mine thou wast, mine art, and mine 
shalt be, 
Faithful or faithless: sealing up the sum 
Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come 
Back to the heart's place here I keep for 
thee! 

XVII 

Only, why should it be with stain at all? 
Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, 

Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow? 
Why need the other women know so much 
And talk together, *'Such the look and such 

"The smile he used to love with, then as 
now I" 

XIII 

Might I die last and show thee ! Should I find 
Such hardships in the few years left behind, 



116 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

If free to take and light my lamp, and go 
Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit, 
Seeing thy face on those four sides of it 

The better that they are so blank, I know! 

XIX 

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er 
Within my mind each look, get more and more 
By heart each word too much to learn at first ; 
And join thee all the fitter for the pause 
'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were 
cause 
For lingering, though thou calledst, if I 
durst! 

XX 

And yet thou art the nobler of us two; 
What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do, 

Outstripping my ten small steps with one 
stride? 
I'll say then, here's a trial and a task; 
Is it to bear? — if easy, I'll not ask: 

Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride. 

XXI 

Pride? — when those eyes forestall the life be- 
hind 
The death I have to go through! — when I find, 

Now that I want thy help most, all of thee ! 
What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fast 
Until the little minute's sleep is past 

And I wake saved. —And yet it will not be ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 117 

IN A YEAR. 



Never any more, 

While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive : 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 

II 

Was it something said, 

Something done, 
Vexed him? was it touch of hand. 

Turn of head? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun : 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

Ill 

When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sung, 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word, 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprung, 

Then he heard. 



118 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

IV 

Sitting by my side, 

At my feet, 
So he breathed but air I breathed, 

Satisfied! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet: 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 



"Speak, I love thee best!" 

He exclaimed: 
•*Let thy love my own foretell!'* 

I confessed : 
**Clasp my heart on thine 

*'Now unblamed, 
** Since upon thy soul as well 

*'Hangeth mine!" 

VI 

Was it wrong to own, 

Being truth? 
Why should all the giving prove 

His alone? 
I had wealth and ease 

Beauty, youth: 
Since my lover gave me love, 

I gave these. 

VII 

That was all I meant, 
— To be just, 



BROWNINGS POE^IS. 119 

And the passion I had raised, 

To content. 
Since he chose to change 

Gold for dust, 
If I gave him what he praised 

Was it strange? 

VIII 

Would he loved me yet, 

On and on. 
While I found some way undreamed 

— Paid my debt! 
Gave more life and more, 

Till all gone. 
He should smile '*She never seemed 

"Mine before. 

IX 

*'What, she felt the while, 

''Must I think? 
"Love's so different with us men!" 

He should smile: 
*' Dying for my sake — 

"White and pink! 
**Can't we touch these bubbles then 

"But they break?" 



Dear, the pang is brief, 

Do thy part. 
Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed 

Grows belief! 
Well, this cold clay clod 

Was man's heart: 



120 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Crumble it, and what comes next? 
Is it God? 

SONG FROM ''JAMES LEE." 



Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, 
This autumn morning! How he sets his 
bones 
To ba^ i' the sun, and thrust out knees and 

feet 
For the ripple to run- over in its mirth : 

Listening the while, where on the heap of 
stones 
The white breast of the sea lark twitters sweet. 



That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 

Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and 
knows. 
If you loved only what were worth your love, 
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you. 

Make the low nature better by your throes! 
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! 

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 



Let's contend no more, Love, 

Strive nor weep : 
All be as before. Love, 

— Only sleep! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 121 



What so wild as words are? 

I and thou 
In debate, as birds are, 

Hawk on bough ! 

Ill 

See the creature stalking 

While we speak ! 
Hush and hide t^e talking, 

Cheek on cheek. 

IV 

What so false as truth is, 

False to thee? 
Where the serpent's tooth is, 

Shun the tree — 



Where the apple reddens, 

Never pry — 
Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 

VI 

Be a god and hold me 

With a charm ! 
Be a man and fold me 

With thine arm ! 

VII 

Teach me, only teach, Love, 
As I ought 



122 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

I will speak thy speech, Love, 
Think thy thought— 

VIII 

Meet, if thou require it 

Both demands, 
Laying flesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

IX 

That shall be to-morrow 

Not to-night: 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight : 



— Must a little weep, Love, 

(Foolish me !) 
And so fall asleep. Love, 

Loved by thee. 

MEETING AT NIGHT. 



The gray sea and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

II 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 



i 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 123 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears, 
Then the two hearts beating each to each! 

PARTING AT MORNING. 

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a world of men for me. 

WOMEN AND ROSES. 



I dream of a red-rose tree. 
And which of its roses three 
Is the dearest rose to me? 



Round and round, like a dance of snow 
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go 
Floating the women faded for ages, 
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. 
Then follow women fresh and gay- 
Living and loving and loved to-day. 
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, 
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, 
They circle their rose on my rose tree. 

Ill 

Dear rose, thy term is reached, 
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached: 
Bees pass it unimpeached. 



124 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



IV 



Stay, then, stoop, since I cannot climb, 
You, great shapes of the antique time, 
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you. 
Break my heart at your feet to please you? 
Oh, to possess and be possessed! 
Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast! 
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion. 
Drink but once and die! — In vain, the same 

fashion, 
They circle their rose on my rose tree. 



Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed: 

Thy cup is ruby-rimmed. 

Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. 

VI 

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth 
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, 
So will I bury me while burning. 
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, 
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips! 
Fold me fast where the cincture slips. 
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, 
Girdle me for once! but no — the old measure, 
They circle their rose on my rose tree. 

VII 

Dear rose without a thorn. 
Thy bud's the babe unborn. 
First streak of a new morn. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 125 

VIII 

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! 

What is far conquers what is near. 

Roses will bloom nor want beholders, 

Sprung from the dust where our flesh mould- 
ers, 

What shall arrive with the cycle's change? 

A novel grace and a beauty strange. 

I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began 
her, 

Shaped her to his mind! — Alas! in like man- 
ner 

They circle their rose on my rose tree. 



MISCONCEPTIONS. 



This is a spray the bird clung to, 
Making it blossom with pleasure, 

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 
Fit for her nest and her treasure 
Oh, what a hope beyond measure 

Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet 
hung to, — 

So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! 

II 

This is a heart the queen leant on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic, 
Ere the true bosom she bent on. 

Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 



126 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went 
on,— 
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent 
on! 

A PRETTY WOMAN. 

I 
That fawn-skin dappled hair of hers, 

And the blue eye 

Dear and dewy. 
And that infantile fresh air of hers! 

II 

To think that men cannot take you. Sweet, 

And enfold you, 

Ay, and hold you. 
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet! 

Ill 

You like us for a glance, you know — 
For a word's sake 
Or a sword's sake: 
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you 
know. 

IV 

And in turn we make you ours, we say — 

You and youth too. 

Eyes and mouth too. 
All the face composed of flowers, we say. 



All's our own, to make the most of. Sweet — 
Sing and say for. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 127 

Watch and pray for, 
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet! 

VI 

But for loving, why, you would not. Sweet, 

Though we prayed you, 

Paid you, brayed you 
In a mortar — for you could not, Sweet! 

VII 

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there 

Be its beauty 

Its sole duty ! 
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there ! 

VIII 

And while the face lies quiet there, 

Who shall wonder 

That I ponder 
A conclusion? I will try it there. 

IX 

As, — why must one, for the love foregone 

Scout mere liking? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth, — the heaven, we looked above for, 
gone! 



Why, with beauty, needs there money be, 

Love with liking? 

Crush the fly-king 
In his gauze, because no honey bee? 



128 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XI 



May not liking be so simple-sweet, 

If love grew there 

'T would undo there 
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? 



XII 



Is the creature too imperfect, say? 

Would you mend it 

And so end it? 
Since not all addition perfects aye ! 

XIII 

Or is it of its kind, perhaps, 

Just perfection — 

Whence, rejection 
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? 

XIV 

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once 

Into a tinder, 

And to hinder 
Sparks from kindling all the place at once? 

XV 

Or else kiss away one's soul on her? 

Your love fancies! 

— A sick man sees 
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! 

XVI 

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,- 
Plucks a mould-flower 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 129 

For his gold flower, 
Uses fine things that efface the rose. 

XVII 

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, 

Precious metals 

Ape the petals, — 
Last, some old king locks it up, morose! 

XVIII 

Then how grace a rose? I know a way! 

Leave it, rather. 

Must you gather? 
Smell, kiss, wear it — at last, throw away. 



A LIGHT WOMAN. 



So far as our story approaches the end. 
Which do you pity the most of us three? — 

My friend, or the mistress of my friend 
With her wanton eyes, or me? 

II 

My friend was already too good to lose. 

And seemed in the way of improvement yet. 

When she crossed his path with her hunting- 
noose 
And over him drew her net. 

Ill 

When I saw him tangled in her toils, 
A shame, said I, if she adds just him 

9 Browning 



130 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, 
The hundredth for a whim ! 

IV 

And before my friend be wholly hers, 
How easy to prove to him, I said, 

An eag-le's the game her pride prefers, 
Though she snaps at a wren instead! 



So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take. 
My hand sought hers as in earnest need. 

And round she turned for my noble sake, 
And gave me herself indeed. 

VI 

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world. 
The wren is he, with his maiden face. 

— You look away and your lip is curled? 
Patience, a moment's space ! 

VII 

For see, my friend goes shaking and white, 

He eyes me as the basilisk : 
I have turned, it appears, his day to night. 

Eclipsing his sun's disk. 

VIII 

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: 

"Though I love her — that, he compre- 
hends — 
*'One should master one's passions, (love, in 
chief) 
*'And be loyal to one's friends!" 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 131 



IX 



And she, — she lies in my hand as tame 
As a pear late basking over a wall; 

Just a touch to try, and off it came ; 
'T is mine, — can I let it fall? 



With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! 

Were it thrown in the road, would the case 
assist? 
'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst 

When I gave its stalk a twist. 

XI 

And I, — what I seem to my friend, you see; 

What I soon shall seem to his love, you 
guess : 
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? 

No hero, I confess. 

XII 

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, 
And matter enough to save one's own; 

Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals 
He played with for bits of stone ! 

XIII 

One likes to show the truth for the truth ; 

That the woman was light is very true: 
But suppose she says, — Never mind that 
youth ! 

What wrong have I done to you? 



132 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

XIV 

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, 
So far at least as I understand; 

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays 
Here's a subject made to your hand! 

LOVE IN A LIFE. 



Room after room, 

I hunt the house through 

We inhabit together. 

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find 

her — 
Next time, herself! — not the trouble behind 

her 
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! 
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed 

anew; 
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her 

feather. 

II 
'Yet the day wears. 
And door succeeds door; 
I try the fresh fortune — 
Range the wide house from the wing to the 

center. 
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. 
Spend my whole day in the quest, — who cares? 
But 'tis twilight, you see, — with such suites to 

explore. 
Such closets to search, such alcoves to impor- 
tune! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 133 

LIFE IN A LOVE. 

Escape me? 

Never — 

Beloved ! 

While I am I, and you are you, 

So long as the world contains us both, 

Me the loving and you the loth, 
While the one eludes, must the other pursue. 
My life is a fault at last, I fear: 

It seems too much like a fate, indeed! 

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. 
But what if I fail of my purpose here? 
It is but to keep the nerves at strain, 

To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, 
And baffled, get up and begin again,— 

So the chase takes up one's life, that's all. 
While, look but once from your farthest bound 

At me so deep in the dust and dark. 
No sooner the old hope goes to ground 

Than a new one, straight to the self-same 
mark, 
I shape me — 
Ever 
Removed ! 

THE LABORATORY. 

ANCIEN REGIME. 



Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly. 
May gaze thro'' these faint smokes curling 

whitely, 



134 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy — 
Which is the poison to poison her, prithee? 



He is with her, and they know that I know 
Where they are, what they do: they believe 

my tears flow 
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to 

the drear 
Empty church, to pray God in, for them ! — I 

am here. 

Ill 

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, 
Pound at thy powder,— I am not in haste! 
Better sit thus and observe thy strange things, 
Than go where men wait me, and dance at the 
King's. 

VI 

That in the mortar — you call it a gum. 

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings 

come! 
And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue. 
Sure to taste sweetly, — is that poison too? 



Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, 
What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures ! 
To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, 
A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 135 

VI 

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give 
And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to 

live! 
But to light a pastile, and Elise with her head 
And her breast and her arms and her hands, 

should drop dead ! 

VII 

Quick— is it finished? The color's too grim! 
Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? 
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and 

stir. 
And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! 

VIII 

What a drop! She's not little, no minion like 

me! 
That's why she ensnared him: this never will 

free 
The soul from those masculine eyes, — say, 

''No!" 
To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. 

IX 

For only last night, as they whispered, I 

brought 
My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought 
Could I keep them one-half minute fixed, she 

would fall 
Shrivelled ; she fell not ; yet this does it all ! 



136 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Not that I bid you spare her the pain ; 
Let death be felt and the proof remain: 
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace — 
He is sure to remember her dying face! 

XI 

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not 

morose ; 
It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close : 
The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee! 
If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? 

XII 

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your 

fill, 
You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you 

will! 
But brush this dust off me, lest horror it 

brings 
Ere I know it — next moment I dance at the 

King's! 

GOLD HAIR: 

A STORY OF PORNIC. 

I 

Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, 

Who lived at Pornic down by the sea. 

Just where the sea and the Loire unite! 
And a boasted name in Brittany 

She bore, which I will not write. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 137 



Too white, for the flower of life is red; 

Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen 
Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) 

To just see earth, and hardly be seen, 
And blossom in heaven instead. 

Ill 

Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! 

One grace that drew to its full on earth: 
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, 

And her waist went half a girdle's girth, 
But she had her great gold hair. 

IV 

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, 

Freshness and fragrance — floods of it, too ! 

Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross: 
Here, Life smiled, ''Think what I meant to 
do!" 

And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!" 



So, when she died, it was scarce more strange, 
Than that, when some delicate evening dies, 

And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, 
There's a shoot of color startles the skies 

With sudden, violent change, — 

VI 

That, while the breath was nearly to seek 

As they put the little cross to her lips. 
She changed ; a spot came out on her cheek, 

10 Browning 



138 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, 
And she broke forth, ''I must speak!" 

VII 

**Not my hair!" made the girl her moan — 

"All the rest is gone or to go; 
*'But the last, last grace, my all, my own, 

"Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts 
may know ! 
"Leave my poor gold hair alone!" 

VIII 

The passion thus vented, dead lay she : 
Her parents sobbed their worst on that, 

All friends joined in, nor observed degree : 
For indeed the hair was to wonder at, 

As it spread — not flowing free. 

IX 

But curled around her brow, like a crown, 
And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap. 

And calmed about her neck — ay, down 
To her breast, pressed fiat, without a gap 

I' the gold, it reached her gown. 



All kissed that face, like a silver wedge, 

'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its 
hair: 

E'en the priest allowed death's prvilege. 
As he planted the crucifix with care 

On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. 



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BROWNING'S POEMS. 139 



XI 

And thus was she buried, inviolate 
Of body and soul, in the very space 

By the altar ; keeping saintly state 

In Pornic church, for her pride of race, 

Pure life and piteous fate. 

XII 

And in after-time would your fresh tear fall. 
Though your mouth might twitch with a 
dubious smile, 

As they told you of gold both robe and pall. 
How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, 

So it never was touched at all. 

XIII 

Years flew; this legend grew at last 
The life of the lady; all she had done, 

All been, in the memories fading fast 
Of lover and friend, was suriimed in one 

Sentence survivors passed : — 

XIV 

To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth ; 

Had turned an angel before the time: 
Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth 

Of frailty, all you could count a crime 
Was — she knew her gold hair's worth. 



XV 



At little pleasant Pornic church, 

It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, 



9 

140 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Was taken to pieces : left in the lurch, 

A certain sacred space lay bare, 
And the boys began research. 

XVI 

'Twas the space where our sires would lay a 
saint, 

A benefactor, — a bishop, suppose, 
A baron with armour-adornments quaint. 

Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, 
Things sanctity saves from taint; 

XVII 

So we came to find them in after-days 

When the corpse is presumed to have done 
with gauds 

Of use to the living, in many ways: 

For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds 

And the church deserves the praise. 

XVIII 

They grubbed with a will: and at length— 

cor 
Humanum pectora ccBca, and the rest ! — 
They found no gaud they were prying for, 
No ring, no rose, but — who would have 

guessed? 
A double Louis-d'or! 

XIX 

Here was a case for the priest: he heard, 

Marked, inwardly digested, laid 
Finger on nose, smiled, "A little bird 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 141 

'* Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade, 
*'Dig deeper!" — he gave the word. 

XX 

And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, 
Or rotten planks which composed it once, 

*Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid 
A mint of money, it served for the nonce 

To hold in its hair-heaps hid! 

XXI 

Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont 
(She the stainless soul) to treasiire up 

Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? 
Had a spider found out the communion-cup? 

Was a toad in the christening- font? 

XXII 

Truth is truth : too true it was. 

Gold ! She hoarded and hugged it first, 
Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it — alas — 

Till the humor grew to a head and burst, 
And she cried, at the final pass, — 

XXIII 

*'Talk not of God, my heart is stone! 

"Nor lover, nor friend — be gold for both!" 
Gold I lack ; and, my all, my own, 

"It shall hide in my hair. 
I scarce die loth "If they let my hair alone!" 

XXIV 

Louis-d'ors, some six times five, 
And duly double, every piece. 



142 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, 

With parents preventing her soul's release 
By kisses that kept alive, — 

XXV 

With heaven's gold gates about to ope, 

With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering 
still, 

An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope 
For gold, the true sort — 
'*Gold in heaven, if you will; 

"But I keep earth's too, I hope. " 

XXVI 

Enough! The priest took the grave's grim 
yield : 

The parents, they eyed that price of sin 
As if thirty pieces lay revealed 

On the place to bury strangers in, 
The hideous Potter's Field. 

xxvii 

But the priest bethought him: *' 'Milk that's 
spilt' 

" — You know the adage ! Watch and pray! 
*' Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! 

"It would build a new altar; that, we may!" 
And the altar therewith was built. 

XXVIII 

Why I deliver this horrible verse? 

As the text of a sermon, which now I preach. 
Evil or good may be better or worse 



BROWNING'S POEMS. US 

In the human heart, but the mixture of each 
Is a marvel and a curse. 

XXIX 

The candid incline to surmise of late 

That the Christian faith may be false, I find; 

For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate 
Begins to tell on the public mind, 

And Colenso's words have weight. 

XXX 

I still, to suppose it true, for my part, 
See reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 

'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her 
dart 
At the head of a lie — taught Original Sin, 

The Corruption of Man's Heart. 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows 

well, 
And a statue watches it from the square, 
And this story of both do our townsmen tell. 

Ages ago, a lady there, 

At the farthest window facing the East, 

Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?" 

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased : 
She leaned forth, one on either hand ; 
They saw how the blush of the bride in- 
creased — 



144 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

They felt by its beats her heart expand — 
As one at each ear and both in a breath 
Whispered, "the Great Duke Ferdinand." 

That self-same instant, underneath. 
The Duke rode past in his idle way, 
Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. 

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. 

Till he threw his head back — "Who is she?" 

— "A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day. 

Hair in heaps lay heavily 

Over a pale brow spirit- pure — 

Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree, 

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure 
And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes 
Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise 
Filled the fine empty sheath of a man, — 
The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. 

He looked at her, as a lover can; 

She looked at him, as one who awakes : 

The past was a sleep, and her life began. 

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, 

A fea^t was held, that self-same night. 

In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. 

(For Via Larga is three parts light. 

But the palace overshadows one, 

Because of a crime which may God requite! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 145 

To Florence and God the wrong was done, 
Through the first republic's murder there 
By Cosimo and his cursed son.) 

The Duke (with the statue's face in the 

square) 
Turned, in the midst of his multitude, 
At the bright approach of the bridal pair. 

Face to face the lovers stood 
A single minute and no more, 
While the bridegroom bent as a man sub- 
dued — 

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — 
For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, 
As the courtly custom was of yore. 

In a minute can lovers exchange a word? 
If a word did pass, which I do not think^ 
Only one out of the thousand heard. 

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink 
He and his bride were alone at last 
In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink. 

Calmly he said that her lot was cast. 

That the door she had passed was shut on her 

Till the final catafalk repassed. 

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, 
Through a certain window facing the East, 
She could watch like a convent's chronicler. 



146 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Since passing the door might lead to a feast, 
And a feast might lead to so much beside, 
He, of many evils, chose the least. 

"Freely I choose too," said the bride: 
"Your window and its world suffice," 
Replied the tongue, while the heart replied- 

"If I spend the night with that devil twice, 
"May his window serve as my loop of hell 
"Whence a damned soul looks on paradise! 

"I fly to the Duke who loves me well, 
"Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow 
"Ere I count another ave-bell. 

"'Tis only the coat of a page to borrow, 
"And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, 
"And I save my soul — but not to-morrow"- 

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim) 
"My father tarries to bless my state: 
"I must keep it one day more for him. 

"Is one day more so long to wait? 
"Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; 
"We shall see each other, sure as fate." 

She turned on her side and slept. Just so! 
So we resolve on a thing, and sleep : 
So did the lady, ages ago. 

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap 
"As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove 
"To body or soul, I will drain it deep." 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 147 

And on the morrow, bold with love, 

He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, 

As- his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 

And smiled '"Twas a very funeral, 
*'Your lady will think, this feast of ours, — 
''A shame to efface, whate'er befall! 

"What if we break from the Arno bowers, 
"And try if Petraja, cool and green, 
"Cure last night's fault with this morning's 
flowers?" 

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen 
On his steady brow and quiet mouth, 
Said "Too much favor for me so mean! 

"But, alas! my lady leaves the South; 
"Each wind that comes from the Apennine 
"Is a menace to her tender youth: 

"Nor a way exists, the wise opine, 
"If she quits her palace twice this year, 
"To avert the flower of life's decline." 

Quoth the Duke: "A sage and a kindly fear. 
"Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: 
"Be our feast to-night as usual here!" 

And then to himself — "Which night shall 

bring 
"Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — 
"Or I am the fool, and thou art the king! 



148 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool — 
"For to-night the Envoy arrives from France 
"Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool. 

"I need thee still and might miss perchance. 
"To-day is not wholly lost, beside, 
"With its hope of my lady's countenance: 

"For I ride — what should I do but ride? 

"And, passing her palace, if I list, 

"May glance at its window — well betide!" 

So said, so done : nor the lady missed 
One ray that broke from the ardent brow% 
Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. 

Be sure that each renewed the vow. 
No morrow's sun should arise and set 
And leave them then as it left them now. 

But next day passed, and next day yet, 
With still fresh cause to wait one day more 
Ere each leaped over the parapet. 

And still, as love's brief morning wore, 
With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh. 
They found love not as it seemed before. 

They thought it would work infallibly. 
But not in despite of heaven and earth: 
The rose would blow when the storm passed 
by. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 149 

Meantime they could profit, in winter's dearth, 

By store of fruits that supplant the rose: 

The world and its ways have a certain worth : 

And to press a point where these oppose 

Were simple policy; better wait: 

We lose no friends and we gain no foes. 

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, 
Who daily may ride and pass and look 
Where his lady watches behind the grate ! 

And she — she watched the square like a book 
Holding one picture and only one. 
Which daily to find she undertook: 

When the picture was reached the book was 

done, 
And she turned from the picture at night to 

scheme 
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 

So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by gleam 
The glory dropped from their youth and 

love. 
And both perceived they had dreamed a 

dream ; 

Which hovered as dreams do, still above: 
But who can take a dream for a truth? 
Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove! 

One day as the lady saw her youth 
Depart,' and the silver thread that streaked 
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth, 



150 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, — 
And wondered who the woman was, 
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked 

Fronting her silent in the glass — 
"Summon here," she suddenly said, 
"Before the rest of my old self pass, 

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, 

"Who fashions the clay no love will change, 

"And fixes a beauty never to fade. 

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange 
"Arrest the remains of young and fair, 
"And rivet them while the seasons range. 

"Make me a face on the window there, 
"Waiting as ever, mute the while, 
"My love to pass below in the square! 

"And let me think that it may beguile 
"Dreary days which the dead must spend 
"Down in their darkness under the aisle, 

"To say, 'What matters it at the end' 

" 'I did no more while my heart was warm 

" 'Than does that image, my pale-faced friend. 

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm, 
"The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, 
"And the blood that blues the inside arm — 

*^ Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, 
"The earthly gift to an end divine? 
"A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 151 

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine 

With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, 

Was set where now is the empty shrine — 

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space, 
As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, 
The passionate pale lady's face — 

Eyeing ever, with earnest eye 

And quick-turned neck at its breathless 

stretch. 
Some one who ever is passing by — ) 

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch 
In Florence, "Youth — my dream escapes! 
"Will its record stay?" And he bade them 
fetch 

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes — 
"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 
"Ere his body finds the grave that gapes? 

"John of Douay shall effect my plan, 
"Set me on horseback here aloft, 
"Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, 

*'In the very square I have crossed so oft: • 
"That men may admire, when future suns 
"Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, 

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in 

bronze — 
''Admire and say, 'When he was alive 
" 'How he would take his pleasure once!' 



152 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"And it shall go hard but I contrive 

"To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb 

"At idleness which aspires to strive." 



So! While these wait the trump of doom, 
How do their spirits pass, I wonder, 
Nights and days in the narrow room? 

Stili, I suppose, they sit and ponder 
What a gift life was, ages ago. 
Six steps out of the chapel yonder. 

Only they see not God, I know, 

Nor all that chivalry of his. 

The soldier-saints who, row on row. 

Burn upward each to his point of bliss — 

Since, the end of life being manifest, 

He had burned his way thro' the world to this, 

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, 
"For their end was a crime." — Oh, a crime 

will do 
As well, I reply, to serve for a test, 

As a virtue golden through and through. 

Sufficient to vindicate itself 

And prove its worth at a moment's view! 

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? 
Where a button goes, 'twere an epigram 
To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 153 

The true has no value beyond the sham : 
As well the counter as coin, I submit, 
When your table's a hat, and your prize a 
dram. 

Stake your counter as boldly every whit. 

Venture as warily, use the same skill. 

Do your best, whether winning or losing it 

If you choose to play ! — is my principle ; 
Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life's set prize, be it what it will. 

The counter, our lovers staked, was lost 

As surely as if it were lawful coin : 

And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost 

Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 
Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. 
You of the virtue (we issue join) 
How strive you? De te, fabula! 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 
I 

Where the quiet colored end of evening smiles, 

Miles and miles, 
On the solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or 
stop 

As they crop — 
W^as the site once of a city great and gay, 

(So they say) 



154 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Of our country's very capital, its prince, 

Ages since, 
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding 
far 

Peace or war. 



Now, — the country does not even boast a tree, 

As you see. 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rilla 

From the hills 
Intersect and give a name to (else they run 

Into one). 
Where the domed and daring palace shot its 
spires 

Up like fires 
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all, 
Made of marble, men might march on nor be 
pressed. 

Twelve abreast. 

Ill 

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass 

Never was! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er- 
spreads 

And embeds 
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. 

Stock or stone — 
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and 
woe 

Long ago; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 155 

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of 
shame 

Struck them tame ; 
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 

Bought and sold. 

IV 

Now, — the single little turret that remains 

On the plains, 
By the caper over-rooted, by the gourd 

Overscored, 
While the patching houseleek's head of blos- 
som winks 

Through the chinks — 
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient 
time 

Sprang sublime. 
And a burning ring, all around, the chariots 
traced 

As they raced. 
And the monarch and his minions and his 
dames 

Viewed the games. 



And I know — while thus the quiet-colored eve 

Smiles to leave 
To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece 

In such peace, 
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray 

Melt away — 
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 

Waits me there 



156 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

In the turret whence the charioteers caught 
soul 

For the goal, 
When the king looked, where she looks now, 
breathless, dumb 
Till I come. 

VI 

But he looked upon the city, every side, 

Far and wide, 
All the mountains topped with temples, all the 
glades, 

Colonnades, 
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then, 

All the men! 
When I do come, she will speak not, she will 
stand. 

Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace 

Of my face. 
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and 
speech 

Each on each. 

VII 

In one year they sent a million fighters forth 

' South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 

As the sky, 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — 

Gold, of course. 
Oh, heart! oh, blood that frees, blood that 
burns! 

Earth's returns 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 157 

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! 

Shut them in, 
With their triumphs and their glories and the 
rest! 

Love is best. 

TIME'S REVENGES. 

I've a Friend, over the sea; 

I like him, but he loves me. 

It all grew out of the books I write; 

They find such favor in his sight 

That he slaughters you with savage looks 

Because you don't admire my books. 

He does himself though, — and if some vein 

Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain. 

To-morrow month, if I lived to try, 

Round should I just turn quietly. 

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand 

Till I found him, come from his foreign land 

To be my nurse in this poor place. 

And make my broth and wash my face 

And light my fire, and, all the while, 

Bear with his old good-humored smile 

That I told him "Better have kept away 

"Than come and kill me, night and day, 

"With, worse than fever throbs and shoots 

"The creaking of his clumsy boots." 

I am as sure that this he would do. 

As that Saint Paul's is striking two. 

And I think I rather . . . woe is me! 

— Yes, rather would see him than not see 

If lifting a hand could seat him there 

Before me in the empty chair 



158 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

To-night, when my head aches indeed, 
And I can neither think nor read 
Nor make these purple fingers hold 
The pen; this garret's freezing cold! 

And I've a Lady — there he wakes 

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes 

Within me, at her name, to pray 

Fate send som.e creature in the way 

Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 

Upthrust and outward-borne, 

So I might prove myself that sea 

Of passion which I needs miust be ! 

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint 

And my style infirm and its figures faint, 

All the critics say, and more blame yet. 

And not one angry word you get. 

But, please you, wonder I would put 

My cheek beneath that lady's foot 

Rather than trample under mine 

The laurels of the Florentine, 

And you shall see how the devil spends 

A fire God gave for other ends! 

I tell you, I stride up and down 

This garret, crowned with love's best crown, 

And feasted with love's perfect feast, 

To think I kill for her, at least. 

Body and soul and peace and fame, 

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, 

— So is my spirit, as flesh with vsin. 

Filled full, eaten out and in 

With the face of her, the eyes of her. 

The lips, the little chin, the stir 

Of shadows round her mouth ; and she 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 159 

—I'll tell you, — calmly would decree 
That I should roast at a slow fire, 
If that would compass her desire 
And make her one whom they invite 
To the famous ball to-morrow night. 

There may be heaven; there must be hell; 
Meantime, there is our earth here — well ! 



WARING. 

I 



What's become of Waring 
Since he gave us all the slip, 
Chose land-travel or seafaring, 
Boots and chest or staff and scrip, 
Rather than pace up and down 
Any longer London town? 



Who'd have guessed it from his lip 

Or his brow's accustomed bearing, 

On the night he thus took ship 

Or started landward? — little caring 

For us, it seems, who supped together 

(Friends of his, too, I remember) 

And walked home thro' the merry weather, 

The snowiest in all December. 

I left his arm that night myself 

For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet 

Who wrote the book there on the shelf — 

How, foresooth, was I to know it 



160 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

If Waring meant to glide away- 
Like a ghost at break of day? 
Never looked he half so gay! 

Ill 

He was prouder than the devil : 

How he must have cursed our revel! 

Ay, and many other meetings, 

Indoor visits, outdoor greetings, 

As up and down he paced this London, 

With no work done, but great works undone, 

Where scarce twenty knew his name. 

Why not, then, have earlier spoken, 

Written, bustled? Who's to blame 

If your silence kept unbroken? 

**True, but there were sundry jottings, 

* 'Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings, 

"Certain first steps were achieved 

"Already which — (is that your meaning?) 

"Had well borne out whoe'er believed 

"In more to come!" But who goes gleaning 

Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved 

Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening; 

Pride alone, puts forth such claims 

O'er the day's distinguished names. 

IV 

Meantime, how much I loved him, 

I find out now I've lost him. 

I who cared not if I moved him. 

Who could so carelessly accost him 

Henceforth never shall get free 

Of his ghostly company. 

His eyes that just a little wink 




"We conferred of her own prospects." — Page 171. 

Browning's Por nis. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 161 

As deep I go into the merit 

Of this and that distinguished spirit — 

His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink, 

As long I dwell on some stupendous 

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) 

Monstr '-inform '-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's latest piece of graphic. 

Nay, my very wrist grows warm 

With his dragging weight of arm. 

E'en so, swimmingly appears, 

Through one's after-supper musings, 

Some lost lady of old 5^ears, 

With her beauteous vain endeavor 

And goodness unrepaid as ever; 

The face accustomed to refusings. 

We, puppies that we were . . . Oh never 

Surely, nice of con-science, scrupled. 

Being aught like false, forsooth, to? 

Telling aught but honest truth t-o? 

What a sin, had we centupled 

Its possessor's grace and sweetness! 

No! she heard in its completeness 

Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter 

And, truth at issue, we can't flatter! 

Well, 'tis done with: she's exempt 

From damning us thro' such a sally; 

And so she glides, as down a valley, 

Taking up with her contempt. 

Past our reach ; and in, the flowers 

vShut her unregarded hours. 



11 Browning 



162 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Oh, could I have him back once more, 
This Waring, but one-half day more! 
Back, with the quiet face of yore, 
So hungry for acknowledgment 
Like mine! Vd fool him to his bent. 
Feed, should not he, to heart's content? 
I'd say, "to only have conceived, 
*' Planned your great works, apart from pro- 
gress, 
"Surpasses little works achieved!" 
I'd lie so, I should be believed; 
I'd make such havoc of the claims 
Of the day's distinguished names 
To feast with, as feasts an ogress 
Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child 
Or as one feasts a creature rarely 
Captured here, unreconciled 
To capture; and completely gives 
Its pettish humors license, barely 
Requiring that it lives. 

VI 

Ichabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed! 
Travels Waring East away? 
Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, 
Reports a man upstarted 

Somewhere as a god. Hordes grown European- 
hearted, 
Millions of the wild made tame 
On a sudden at his fame? 
In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 
Or who in Moscow, towards the Czar, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 163 

With the demurest of footfalls 

Over the Kremlin's pavement bright 

With serpentine and syenite, 

Steps, with five other Generals 

That simultaneously take snuff, 

For each to have pretext enough 

And kerchief wise unfold his sash 

Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 

To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, 

And leave the grand white neck no gash? 

Waring in Moscow, to those rough 

Cold northern natures borne perhaps, 

Like the lamb-white maiden dear 

From the circle of mute kings 

Unable to repress the tear. 

Each at his sceptre down he flings. 

To Diana's fame at Taurica, 

Where now a captive priestess, she alway 

Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech 

With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten 

beach : 
As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands 
Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian 

strands 
Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry 
Amid their barbarous twitter! 
In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! 
Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain 
That we and Waring meet again 
Now, while he turns down that cool narrow 

lane 
Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 
All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid 
Its stiff gold blazing pall 



164 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

From some black coffin-lid. 

Or, best of all, I love to think 

The leaving us was just a feint; 

Back here to London did he slink, 

And now works on without a wink 

Of sleep, and we are on the brink 

Of something great in fresco-paint: 

Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, 

Up and down and o'er and o'er 

He splashes, as none splashed before 

Since great Caldara Polidore. 

Or Music means this land of ours 

Some favor yet, to pity won 

By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers, — 

*'Give me my so- long promised son, 

*'Let Waring end what I begun!" 

Then down he creeps and out he steals, 

Only when the night conceals 

His face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time, 

Or hops are picking : or at prime 

Of March he wanders as, too happy. 

Years ago, when he was young, 

Some mild eve when woods grew sappy 

And the early moths had sprung 

To life from many a trembling sheath 

Woven the warm boughs beneath; 

While small birds said to themselves 

What should soon be actual song, 

And young gnats, by tens and twelves 

Made as if they were the throng 

That crowd around and carry aloft 

The sound they have nursed, so sweet and 

pure, 
Out of a myriad noises soft. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 165 

Into a tone that can endure 

Amid the noise of a July noon 

When all God's creatures crave their boon, 

All at once, and all in tune, 

And get it, happy as Waring- then, 

Having first within his ken 

What a man might do with men: 

And far too glad, in the even-glow. 

To mix with the world he meant to take 

Into his hand, he told you so — 

And out of it his world to make, 

To contract and to expand 

As he shut or oped his hand. 

Oh Waring, what's to really be? 

A clear stage and a crowd to see! 

Some Garrick say, out shall not he 

The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? 

Or, when most unclean beasts are rife, 

Some Junius — am I right? — shall tuck 

His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! 

Some Chatterton shall have the luck 

Of calling Rowley into life! 

Someone shall somehow run amuck 

With this old world for want of strife 

Sound sleep. Contrive, contrive 

To rouse us. Waring! Who's alive? 

Our men scarce seem in earnest now. 

Distinguished names! but 'tis, somehow, 

As if they played at being names 

Still more distinguished, like the games 

Of children. Turn our sport to earnest 

With a visage of the sternest! 

Bring the real times back, confessed 

Still better than our very best. 



166 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

II 



''When I last saw Waring ..." 
(How all turned to him who spoke! 
You saw Waring? Truth or joke? 
(In land- travel or sea-faring?) 

II 

*'We were sailing by Triest 

"Where a day or two we harbored: 

"A sunset was in the West, 

''When, looking over the vessels' side, 

*'One of our company espied 

"A sudden speck to larboard. 

"And as a sea-duck flies and swims 

"At once, so came the light craft up, 

"With its sole lateen sail that trims 

"And turns (the water round its rims 

"Dancing, as round a sinking cup) 

"And by us like a fish it curled, 

"And drew itself up close beside, 

"Its great sail on the instant furled, 

"And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried, 

"(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 

" 'Buy wine of us, you English Brig? 

" 'Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? 

*' 'A pilot for you to Triest? 

" 'Without one, look you ne'er so big, 

" 'They'll never let you up the bay! 

" 'We natives should know best." 

"I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' 

"Our captain said, 'The 'long- shore thieves 

" 'Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 167 



III 



"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back: 
*'And one, half-hidden by his side 
*' Under the furled sail, soon I spied, 
"With great grass hat and kerchief black, 
"Who looked up with his kingly throat, 
"Said somewhat, while the other shook 
"His hair back from his eyes to look 
"Their longest at us; then the boat, 
"I know not how, turned sharply round, 
"Laying her whole side on the sea 
"As a leaping fish does; from the lee 
"Into the weather, cut somehow 
"Her sparkling path beneath our bow, 
"And so went off, as with a bound, 
"Into the rosy and golden half 
"O' the sky, to overtake the sun 
"And reach the shore, like the sea-calf 
"Its singing cave; yet I caught one 
"Glance ere away the boat quite passed, 
"And neither times nor toil could mar 
"Those features; so I saw the last 
"Of Waring!" — You? Oh, never star 
Was lost here but it rose afar! 
Look East, where whole new thousands are ! 
In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 



HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD. 



Oh, to be in England now that April 's there, 
And whoever wakes in England sees, some 
morning, unaware, 



168 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood 
sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now! 

And after April, when May follows 

And the white-throat builds, and all the swal- 
lows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the 
hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's 
edge — 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song 
twice over 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And, though the fields look rough with hoary 
dew, 

All will be gay w^hen noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

THE ITALL\N IN ENGLAND. 

That second time they hunted me 

From hill to plain, from shore to sea. 

And Austria, hounding far and wide 

Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side, 

Breathed hot and instant on my trace. — 

I made, six days, a hiding-place 

Of that dry green old aqueduct 

Where I and Charks, when boys, have plucked 

The fire-flies from the roof above, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 169 

Bright creeping thro' the moss they love; 

— How long it seems since Charles was lost! 

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 

The country in my very sight ; 

And when that peril ceased at night, 

The sky broke out in red dismay 

With signal-fires. Well, there I lay 

Close covered o'er in my recess, 

Up to the neck in ferns and cress, 

Thinking on Aletternich our friend, 

And Charles' miserable end, 

And much beside, tw9 days; the third. 

Hunger o'ercame me when I heard 

The peasants from the village go 

To work among the maize: you know, 

W^ith us in Lombardy, they bring 

Provisions packad on mules, a string, 

With little bells that cheer their task, 

And casks, and boughs on every cask 

To keep the sun's heat from the wine; 

These I let pass in jingling line, 

And, close on them, dear noisy crew, 

The peasants from the village, too; 

For at the very rear would troop 

Their wives and sisters in a group 

To help, I knew; when these had passed, 

I threw my glove to strike the last. 

Taking the chance ; she did not start, 

Much less cry out, but stooped apart, 

One instant rapidly glanced round. 

And saw me beckon from the ground. 

A wild bush grows and bides my crypt; 

She picked my glove up while she stripped 

A branch off, then rejoined the rest 

12 Browning 



170 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

With that: my glove lay in her breast: 
Then I drew breath; they disappeared: 
It was for Italy I feared. 

An hour, and she returned alone 
Exactly where my glove was thrown. 
Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me 
Rested the hopes of Italy ; 
I had devised a certain tale 
Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail 
Persuade a peasant of its truth ; 
I meant to call a freak of youth 
This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 
And no temptation to betray. 
But when I saw that woman's face, 
Its calm simplicity of grace, 
Our Italy's own attitude 
In which she walked thus far, and stood, 
Planting each naked foot so firm. 
To crush the snake and spare the worm — 
At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
"I am that man upon whose head 
'*They fix the price, because I hate 
*'The Austrians over us; the State 
*'Will give you gold — oh, gold so much! — 
*'If you betray me to their clutch, 
*'And be your death, for aught I know, 
"If once they find you saved their foe. 
*'Now, you must bring me food and drink, 
*'And also paper, pen and ink, 
*'And carry safe what I shall write 
"To Padua, which you'll reach at night 
"Before the duomo shuts; go in, 
"And wait till Tenebrae begin; 



J 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 171 

"Walk to the third confessional, 

''Between the pillar and the wall, 

*'And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace? 

"Say it a second time, then cease; 

"And if the voice inside returns, 

"From Christ and Freedom; what concerns 

"The cause of Peace? — for answer, slip 

"My letter where you placed your lip; 

"Then come back happy we have done 

"Our mother service — I, the son, 

"As you the daugther of our land!" 

Three mornings more, she took her stand 
In the same place, with the same eyes; 
I was no surer of sun-rise 
Than of her coming: we conferred 
Of her own prospects, and I heard 
She had a lover — stout and tall. 
She said — then let her eyelids fall, 
"He could do much" — as if some doubt 
Entered her heart, — then, passing out, 
"She could not speak for others, who 
"Had other thoughts; herself she knew:" 
And so she brought me drink and food. 
After four days, the scouts pursued 
Another path ; at last arrived 
The help my Paduan friends contrived 
To furnish me: she brought the news. 
For the first time I could not choose 
But kiss her hand, and lay my own 
Upon her head — "This faith was shown 
"To Italy, our mother; she 
"Uses my hand and blesses thee." 



172 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

She followed down to the sea-shore; 
I left and never saw her more. 

How very long since I have thought 
Concerning — much less wished for — aught 
Beside the good of Italy, 
For which I live and mean to die! 
I never was in love ; and since 
Charles proved false, what shall now convince 
My inmost heart I have a friend? 
However, if I pleased to spend 
Real wishes on myself — say, three — 
I know at least what one should be. 
I would grasp Metternich until 
I felt his red wet throat distill 
In blood thro' these two hands. And next, 
— Nor much for that am I perplexed — 
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, 
Should die slow of a broken heart 
Under his new employers. Last 
— Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast 
Do I grow old and out of strength. 
If I resolved to seek at length 
My father's house again, how scared 
They all would look, and unprepared! 
My brohers live in Austria's pay 
— Disowned me long ago, men say; 
And all my early mates who used 
To praise me so — perhaps induced 
More than one early step of mine — 
Are turning wise: while some opine 
"Freedom grows license," some suspect 
"Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
They always said, such premature 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 173 

Beginnings never could endure! 
So, with a sullen "All's for best," 
The land seems settling to its rest, 
I think then, I should wish to stand 
This evening in that dear, lost land, 
Over the sea the thousand miles, 
And know if yet that woman smiles 
With the calm smile ; some little farm 
She lives in there, no doubt ; what harm 
If I sat on the door-side bench, 
And while her spindle made a trench 
Fantastically in the dust. 
Inquired of all her fortunes — just 
Her children's ages aud their names. 
And what may be the husband's aims 
For each of them. I'd talk this out, 
And sit there, for an hour about, 
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay 
Mine on her head, and go my way. 

So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. 

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 

PIANO DI SORRENTO. 

Fortu, Fortu, my beloved one, sit here by my 

side, 
On m.y knees put up both little feet ! I am 

sure, if I tried, 
I could make you laugh spite of vScirocco. Now, 

open your eyes. 
Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in 

black from the skies. 



174 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

With telling my memories over, as you tell 

your beads ; 
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland — the 

flowers or the weeds. 

Time for rain ! for your long hot dry Autumn 

had net-worked with brown 
The white skin of each grape on the bunches, 

marked like a quail's crown, 
Those creatures you make such account of, 

whose heads, — specked with white 
Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told 

you last night — 
Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe 

as could be, 
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in 

halves on the tree. 
And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone, 

or in the thick dust 
On the path or straight out of the rock-side, 

wherever could thrust 
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its 

yellow face up, 
For the prize were great butterflies fighting, 

some five for one cup. 
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what 

change was in store, 
By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets 

which woke me before 
I could open my shutter, made fast with a 

bough and a stone, 
And look through the twisted dead wine-twigs, 

sole lattice that's known. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 175 

Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net- 
poles, while, busy beneath. 

Your priest and his brother tugged at them, 
the rain in their teeth. 

And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where 
split figs lay drying. 

The girls took the frails under cover; nor use 
seemed in trying 

To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under 
the cliff, 

Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind- 
rock. No seeing our skiff 

Arrive about noon from Amalfi! — our fisher 
arrive. 

And pitch down his basket before us, all trem- 
bling alive. 

With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit; 
you touch the strange lumps, 

And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner 
of horns and of humps. 

Which only the fisher looks grave at, while 
round him like imps, 

Cling, screaming the children as naked and 
brown as his shrimps ; 

Himself, too, as bare to the middle — you see 
round his neck 

The string and its brass coin suspended, that 
saves him from wreck. 

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno: so 
back, to a man, 

Came our friends, with whose help in the vine- 
yards grape-harvest began. 

In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, like 
blood the juice spins, 



176 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

While your brother all bare-legged is dancing 

till breathless he grins 
Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the 

grapes under, 
Since still, when he seems all but master, in 

pours he fresh plunder 
From girls who keep coming and going with 

basket on shoulder, 
And eyes shut against the rains driving ; your 

girls that are older, 
For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on 

its bed 
Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple 

lies pulpy and red. 
All the young ones are kneeling and filling 

their laps with the snails 
Tempted out by this first rainy weather, — your 

best of regales, 
As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, 

supping in state. 
We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, 

three over one plate) 
With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slip- 
pery ropes, 
And gourds fried in great purple slices, that 

color of popes. 
Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought 

you: the rain-water slips 
O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which 

the wasp to your lips 
Still follows with fretful persiste^ice. Nay, 

taste, while awake. 
This half of a curd-whit-e smooth cheese-ball 

that peels, flake by flake, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 177 

Like an onion, each smoother and whiter: next, 
sip this weak wine 

From the thin green glass flask^ with its stop- 
per, a leaf of the vine ; 

And end with the prickly pear's red flesh that 
leaves thro* its juice 

The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco is loose ! 
Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives 

which, thick in one's track, 
Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, 

tho* not yet half black! 
How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, the 

medlars let fall 
Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees 

snap off, figs and all. 
For here comes the whole of the tempest ! no 

refuge, but creep 
Back again to my side and my shoulder, and 

listen or sleep. 

O how will your country show next week, 

when all the vine-boughs 
Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture 

the mules and the cows? 
Last eve I rode over the mountains; your 

brother, my guide. 
Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that 

offered, each side, 
Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious,— 

or strip from the sorbs 
A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy 

gold orbs! 

12 



178 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

But my mule picked his sure sober path out, 

just stopping to neigh 
When he recognized down in the valley his 

mates on their way 
With the faggots and barrels of water. And 

soon we emerged 
From the plain 'where the woods could scarce 

follow ; and still, as we urged 
Our way, the woods wondered, and left us. 

Up, up still we trudged, 
Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, 

and place was e'en grudged 
Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones 

like the loose broken teeth 
Of some monster which climbed there to die, 

from the ocean beneath — 
Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume- 
weed that clung to the path, 
And dark rosemary ever a-dying, that, 'spite 

the wind's wrath. 
So loves the salt rock's face to seaward: and 

lentisks as staunch 
To the stone where they root and bear berries : 

and . . . what shows a branch 
Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets of pale 

seagreen leaves; 
Over all trod my mule with the caution of 

gleaners o'er sheaves. 
Still, foot after foot like a lady, still, round 

after round. 
He climbed to the top of Calvano: and God's 

own profound 
Was above me, and round me the mountains, 

and under, the sea, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 179 

And within me my heart to bear witness what 

was and shall be. 
Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! no ram- 
part excludes 
Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue 

solitudes. 
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! 

still moving with you 
For, ever some new head and breast of them 

thrusts into view 
To observe the intruder you see it, if quickly 

you turn 
And, before they escape you, surprise them. 

They grudge you should learn 
How soft plains they look on, lean over and 

love (they pretend) 
— Cower beneath them, the black sea-pine 

crouches, the wild fruit-trees bend. 
E'en the myrtle leaves curl, shriak and shut: 

all is silent and grave : 
'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, — how fair! 

but a slave. 

So, I turned to the sea and there slumbered, 

as greenly as ever 
Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages 

can sever 
The Three, nor enable their sister to join 

them, — halfway 
On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses — no 

farther to-day! 
Tho' the small one, just launched in the waves, 

watches breast-high and steady 



180 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

From under the rock her bold sister, swum 

halfway already. 
Fortu, shall we sail there together, and see, 

from the sides, 
Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts 

where the siren abides? 
Shall we sail round and round them, close over 

the rocks, tho' unseen. 
That ruffle the gray glassy water to glorious 

green? 
Then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach 

land, and explore, 
On the largest, the strange square black tur- 
ret with never a door. 
Just a loop to admit the quick lizards? Then, 

stand there and hear 
The birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life 

is, so clear? 
— The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages 

ago. 
He heard and he knew this life's secret, I hear 

and I know. 

Ah, see! the sun breaks o'er Calvano. He 

strikes the great gloom 
And flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy 

gold fume. 
All is over. Look out, see, the gipsy, our 

tinker and smith, 
Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and 

down-squatted forthwith 
To his hammering under the wall there ! One 

eye keeps aloof, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 181 

The urchins that itch to be putting his jews- 

harp to proof, 
While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, is 

watching how sleek 
Shines the hog, come to share in the wind-fall. 

Chew, abbot's own cheek! 
All is over. Wake up and come out now, and 

down let us go, 
And see the fine things got in order at church 

for the show 
Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To- 
morrow's the Feast 
Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means of Virgins 

the least: 
As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse which 

(all nature, no art) 
The Dominican brother, these three weeks, 

was getting by heart. 
Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red 

and blue papers 
All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar 

ablaze with long tapers. 



But the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged 
glorious to hold 

All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and 
trumpeters bold 

Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber: who, when 
the priest's hoarse. 

Will strike us up something that's brisk for the 
feast's second course. 

And then will the flaxen-wigged Image be car- 
ried in pomp 



182 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Thro' the plain, while, in gallant procession, 

the priests mean to stomp. 
AH round the glad church lie old bottles with 

gunpowder stopped, 
Which will be, when the Image re-nters, relig- 
iously popped. 
And at night from the crest of Calvano great 

bonfires will hang : 
On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and 

more poppers bang. 
At all events, come — to the garden, as far as 

the wall ; 
See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out 

there shall fall 
A scorpion with wide angry nippers! 

— "Such trifles!" you say? 

Fortu, in my England at home, men meet 
gravely to-day 

And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws be righte- 
ous and wise! 

— If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish in 
black from the skies! 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY. 

(as distinguished by an ITALIAN PERSON OF 
QUALITY.) 



Had I but plenty of money, money enough and 

to spare, 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in 

the city-square; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 183 

Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the 
window there ! 



Something to see, by Bacchus, something to 
here, at least ! 

There, the whole day long, one's life is a per- 
fect feast; 

While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no 
more than a beast. 

Ill 

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn 
of a bull 

Just on a mountain edge as bare as the crea- 
ture's skull. 

Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf 
to pull ! 

— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the 
hair's turned wool. 

IV 

But the city, oh the city— the square with the 
houses! Why? 

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, — there's 
something to take the eye ! 

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front 
awry; 

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saun- 
ters, who hurries by ; 

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw 
when the sun gets high; 

And the shops with fanciful signs which are 
painted properly. 



184 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



What of a villa? Though winter be over in 
March by rights, 

'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have with- 
ered well off the-heights: 

You've the brown ploughed land before, where 
the oxen steam and wheeze, 

And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint 
gray olive-trees.. 

VI 

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer 

all at once ; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong 

April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce 

risen three fingers well, 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its 

great red bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the 

children to pick and sell. 

VII 

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain 

to spaut and splash ! 
In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine 

such foam-bows flash 
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that 

prance and paddle and pash 
Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty»gazers 

do not abash, 
Though all that she wears is some, weeds round 
her waist in a sort of sash. 



±5R0WNIx\G'S POEMS. l85 

VIII 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see 

though you linger, 
Except yon cypress that points like death's 

lean lifted forefinger. 
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' 

the corn and mingle, 
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it 

seem atingle. 
Late August or early September, the stunning 

cicala is shrill, 
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round 

the resinous firs on the hill. 
Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the 

months of the fever and chill. 

IX 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed 

church-bells begin : 
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence 

rattles in: 
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you 

never a pin. 
By and by there's the traveling doctor gives 

pills, lets blood, draws teeth ; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the 

market beneath. 
At the post-office such a scene- picture — the new 

play, piping hot! 
And a notice how, only this morning, three 

liberal thieves were shot. 
Above it, behold the Archbishop's most 

fatherly of rebukes, 



186 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



1 



And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some 
little new law of the Duke's! 

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Rever- 
end Don So-and-so 

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome 
and Cicero, 

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) 
"the skirts of St. Paul has reached, 

"Having preached us those six Lent-lectures 
more unctuous than ever he preached." 

Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession ! our 
lady borne smiling and smart. 

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and 
seven swords stuck in her heart ! 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle- te- 

tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches 
still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 



But bless you, it's dear! fowls, wine, at double 

the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and 

what oil pays passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for 

me, not the city! 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but still — 

ah, the pity, the pity! 
Look, two and two go to the priests, then the 

monks with cowls and sandals. 
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, 

aholding the yellow candles; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another 

a cross with handles, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 187 

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for 
the better prevention of scandals: 

Bang- whang- whang goes the drum, tootle-te- 
tootle the fife. 

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such 
pleasure in life! 

PICTOR IGNOTUS. 

FLORENCE, I 5 . 

I could have painted pictures like that youth's 
Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No 
bar 
Stayed me — ah, thought which saddens while 
it soothes! 
— Never did fate forbid me, star by star. 
To outburst on your night, vnth all my gift 
Of fires from God : nor would my flesh have 
shrunk 
From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift 
And wide to heaven, or, straight like thun- 
der, sunk 
To the center, of an instant; or around 

Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan 
The license and the limit, space and bound, 

Allowed to truth made visible in man. 
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, 

Over the canvas could my hand have flung, 
Each face obedient to its passion's law. 

Each passion clear proclaimed without a 
tongue. 
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, 
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, 



188 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her 
brood 
Pull down the nestling dove's heart to its 
place; 
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, 

And locked the mouth fast, like a castle 
braved, — 
O human faces, hath it split, my cup? 

What did ye give me that I have not saved? 
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) 
Of going — I, in each new picture, — forth, 
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell. 
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or 
North, 
Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, 

Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, 
Flowers cast upon the car which bore the 
freight, 
Through old streets named afresh from the 
event. 
Till it reached home, where learned age should 
greet 
My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct 
Above his hair, lie learniug at my feet! — 

Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked 
W^ith love about, and praise, till life should end. 
And then not go to heaven, but linger here. 
Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend, 
The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly 
dear! 
But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such 
sights 
Have scared me, like the revels through a 
door 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 189 

Of some strange house of idols at its rites! 
This world seemed not the world it was, 
before. 
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there 

trooped 
. . . Who summoned those cold faces that 

begun 
To press on me and judge me? Though I 
stooped 
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, 
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . 
enough! 
These buy and sell our pictures, take and 
give, 
Count them for garniture and household stuff, 
And where they live needs must our pictures 
live 
And see their faces, listen to their prate. 

Partakers of their daily pettiness. 
Discussed of, — "This I love, or this I hate, 
This likes me more, and this affects me 
less!" 
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles 

My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint 
These endless cloisters and eternal aisles, 
With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and 
Saint, 
With the same cold calm beautiful regard, — 
At least no merchant traffics in my heart; 
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward 
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand 
apart ; 
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine 
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, 



190 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

They moulder on the damp wall's travertine. 
Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. 
So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! 

O youth, men praise so, — holds their praise 
its worth? 
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? 
Tastes sweet the water with such specks of 
earth? 

FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! 
You need not clap your torches to my face. 
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a 

monk ! 
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the 

rounds. 
And here you catch me at an alley's end 
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? 
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, 
Do, — harry out, if you must show your zeal, 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, 
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 
Weke, vv-eke, that's crept to keep him company! 
Aha, you know 5^our betters? Then you'll take 
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, 
And please to know me likewise. Who am I? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 
Three streets off — he's certain . . . how d' ye 

call? 
Master — a . . . Cosmo of the Medici, 
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you 

were best! 
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 191 

How you effected such a gullet's- gripe! 

But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves 

Pick up a manner, nor discredit you : 

Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the 

streets 
And count fair prize that comes into their net? 
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! 
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. 
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 
Of the munificent House that harbors me 
(And many more beside, lads ! more beside !) 
And all's come square again. I'd like his 

face — 
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 
With the pike and lantern, — for the slave that 

holds 
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 
With one hand (Look you now," as who 

should say) 
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped 
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, 
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! 
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. 
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down. 
You know them, and they take you? like 

enough ! 
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye — 
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
Let's sit and set things straight now, tip to 

haunch. 
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes 

up bands 
To roam the town and sing out carnival, 



192 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And I've been three weeks shut within my 

mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints 
And saints again. I could not paint all night — 
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs and whifts of 

song,— 
Flower o' the broom, 

Take away love, and our earth is a tomb ! 
Flower o' the quince, 

I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? 
Flower o' the thyme — and so on. Round they 

went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner when a tit- 
ter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight — 

three slim shapes, 
And a fiace that looked up . . zooks, sir, flesh 

and blood, 
That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went. 
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, 
All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots, 
There was a ladder ! Down I let myself 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so 

dropped, 
And after them. I came up with the fun 
Hard by Saint Lawrence, hail fellow, well 

met, — 
Flower o' the rose. 

If I've been merry, what matter who knows? 
And so, as I was stealing back again. 
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 193 

On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast 
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, 
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! 
Though your eye twinkle still, you shake your 

head — 
Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — the sting's 

in that! 
If Master Cosimo announced himself, 
Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! 
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 
I was a baby when my mother died 
And father died and left me in the street, 
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two 
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, 
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day. 
My stomach being empty as your hat. 
The wind doubled me up and down I went. 
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand 
(Its fellow was a stinger, as I knew) 
And so along the wall, over the bridge, 
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words 

there. 
While I stood munching my first bread that 

month : 
**So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat 

father 
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time, — 
"To quit this very miserable world? 
*'Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of 

bread?" thought I: 
By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; 
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, 
Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house, 
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 

13 Browning 



194 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Have given their hearts to — all at eight years 

old. 
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 
*Twas not for nothing — the good bellyful. 
The warm serge and the rope that goes all 

round, 
And day-long blessed idleness beside ! 
** Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that 

came next 
Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 
Such a to-do ! They tried me with their books : 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure 

waste ! 
Flower o' the clove, 

All the Latin I construe is, "Amo" I love! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the 

streets 
Eight years together, as my fortune was. 
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling 
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he de- 
sires. 
And who will curse or kick him for his pains, — 
Which gentleman processional and fine, 
Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 
The droppings of the wax to sell again. 
Or holla for the Eight and have him 

whipped, — 
How say I? — nay, which dog bites, which lets 

drop 
His bone from the heap of offal in the street, — 
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, 
He learns the look of things, and none the less 
For admonition from the hunger-pinch. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 19S 

I had a store of such remarks, be sure, 
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use : 
I drew men's faces on my copy-books, 
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's 

marge, 
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes. 
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, 
And made a string of pictures of the world 
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, 
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks 

looked black. 
"Na3r," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d' ye 

say? 
*'In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 
''What if at last we get our man of parts, 
*'We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese 
''And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 
"And put the front on it that ought to be!" 
And hereupon he bade me daub away. 
Thank you! my head being crammed, the 

walls a blank. 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First every sort of monk, the black and white, 
I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks at 

church. 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, — 
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot. 
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 
With the little children round him in a row 
Of admiration, half for his beard, and half 
For that white anger of his victim's son 
vShaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, 



196 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Signing himself with the other because of 

Christ 
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
After the passion of a thousand years) 
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, 
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came 

at eve 
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 
Her pair of ear-rings and a bunch of flowers 
(The brute took growling) prayed, and so was 

gone. 
I painted all, then cried, *' 'Tis ask and have; 
*' Choose for more's ready!" — laid the latter 

flat. 
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 
Till checked, taught what to see and not to 

see, 
Being simple bodies, — "That's the very man! 
*'Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! 
*'That woman's like the Prior's niece who 

comes 
*'To care about his asthma: it's the life!" 
But there my triumph's strav/-fire flared and 

funked ; 
Their betters took their turn to see and say: 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face 
And stopped all that in no time. "How! 

what's here? 
"Quite from the mark of painting, bless us 

all! 
"Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true 
"As much as pea and pea! it's devil's game! 
"Your business is not to catch men with show. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 197 

*'With homage to the perishable clay, 

*'But lift them over it, ignore it all, 

"Make them forget there's such a thing as 

flesh. 
"Your business is to paint the souls of men — 
"Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . no, it's 

"It's vapor done up like a new-born babe — 
"(In that shape when you die it leaves your 

mouth) 
"It's . . well, what matters talking, it's the 

soul ! 
"Give us no more of body than shows soul! 
"Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, 
"That sets up praising, — why not stop with 

him! 
"Why put all thoughts of praise out of our 

head 
"With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? 
"Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! 
"Rub all out, try at it a second time! 
"Oh, that white smallish female with the 

breasts, 
"She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would 

say, — 
"Who went and danced, and got men's heads 

cut off! 
"Have it all out!' Now, is this sense, I ask? 
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body 
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go fur- 
ther 
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for 

white 
When what you put for yellow's simply black, 



198 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And any sort of meaning looks intense 
When all beside itself means and looks 

nought. 
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 
Left foot and right foot, go a double step, 
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, 
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, 
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is it so 

pretty 
You can't discover if it means hope, fear. 
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? 
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash. 
And then add soul and heighten them three- 
fold? 
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all — 
(I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 
If you get simple beauty and nought else. 
You get about the best thing God invents: 
That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you 

have missed, 
Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, 

in short. 
And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I'm grown a man, no doubt, I've broken 

bounds: 
You should not take a fellow eight years old 
And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I please — 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house? 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes than 

just 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 19S 

To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse ! 

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave 

eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, 
The heads shake still — *'It's art's decline, my 

son! 
*' You're not of the true painters, great and 

old: 
*' Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; 
*' Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: 
*'Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the 

third!" 
Flower o' the pine, 
You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I'll 

stick to mine! 
I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must 

know! 
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know. 
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my 

rage, 
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and 

paint 
To please them — sometimes do, and sometimes 

don't; 
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints— 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world — 
(Flower o' the peach. 

Death for us all, and his own life for each !) 
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs 

over, 
The world and life's too big to pass for a 

dream, 
And I do these wild things in sheer despite, 



200 BROWNING'S POEMS 

And play the fooleries you catch me at, 
In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out at grass 
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 
Although the miller does not preach to him 
The only good of grass is to make chaff. 
What would men liave? Do they like grass or 

no — 
May they or mayn't they? all I want's the 

thing 
Settled for ever one way. As it is, 
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: 
You don't like what you only like too much. 
You do like w^hat, if given you at your word. 
You find abundantly detestable. 
For me, I think I speak as I was taught : 
I always see the garden, and God there 
A-making man's wife : and, my lesson learned, 
The value and significance of flesh, 
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 
But see, now^ — why, I see as certainly 
As that the morning-star's about to shine, 
What will hap some day. We've a youngster 

here 
Comes to our convent, studies what I do, 
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: 
His name is Guidi — he'll not mind the monks — 
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them 

talk- 
He picks my practice up — he'll paint apace, 
I hope so — though I never live so long, 
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! 
You speak no Latin more than L belike : 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 201 

However, you're my man, you've seen the 

world 
— The beauty and the wonder and the power, 
The shapes of things, their colors, lights and 

shades. 
Changes, surprises, — and God made it all! 
For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no. 
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line. 
The mountain round it and the sky above, 
Much more the figures of man, woman, child, 
These are the frame to? What's it all about? 
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, 
Wondered at? oh, this last of course! — you say. 
But why not do as well as say, — paint these 
Just as they are, careless what comes of it? 
God's works — paint any one, and count it crime 
To let a truth slip. Don't object, *'His works 
"Are here already; nature is complete: 
"Suppose you reproduce her — (which you 

can't) 
"There's no advantage! you must beat her, 

then." 
i^or, don't you mark? we're made so thai we 

love 
First when we see them painted, things we 

have passed 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ; 
And so they are better, painted — better to us. 
Which is the same thing. Art was given for 

that: 
God uses us to help each other so, 
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, 

now. 
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, 

14 Browning 



202 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And trust me but you should, though ! How 

much more 
If I drew higher things with the same truth ! 
That were to take the Prior's pulpit- place, 
Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, 
It makes me mad to see what men shall do 
And we in our graves ! This world's no blot 

for us 
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means 

good: 
To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 
*'Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" 
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's 

plain 
**It does not say to folks — remember matins, 
*'Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for 

this 
What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 
Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what's 

best, 
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 
A painted a St. Laurence six months since 
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style : 
*'How looks my painting, now the scaffold's 

down?" 
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns — 
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves 
"Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 
"But *s scratched and prodded to our heart's 

content, 
"The pious people have so eased their own 
"With coming to say prayers there in a rage: 
"We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 
"Expect another job this time next year, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 203 

"For pity and religion grow i' the crowd— 
/*Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang 
the fools! 

That is — you'll not mistake an idle word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, 
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! 
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, 

now! 
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 
Should have his apt word to excuse himself: 
And hearken how I plot to make amends 
I have bethought me : I shall paint a piece 
. . . There's for you! Give me six months, 

then go, see 
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the 

nuns! 
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, 
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 
As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
AVhen ladies crowd to church at rnidsummer. 
And then i' the front, of course a saint or 

two — 
St. John, because he saves the Florentines, 
St. Ambrose, who puts down in black and 

white 
The convent's friends and gives them a long 

day. 
And Job, I must have him there past mistake, 
The man of Uz, (and Us without the z. 



204 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Painters who need his patience). Well, all 

these 
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 
Out of a corner when you least expect, 
As one by a dark stair into a great light, 
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! — 
Mazed, motionless and moon-struck — I'm the 

man! 
Back I shrink — what is this I see and hear? 
I, caught up with my monk's things by mis- 
take, 
My old serge gown and rope that goes all 

round, 
I, in this presence, this pure company! 
Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? 
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 
Forward, puts out a soft palm — "Not so fast!" 
— Addresses the celestial presence, "nay — 
"He made you and devised you, after all, 
"Though he's none of you! Could St. John 

there, draw — 
"His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? 
"We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
''' I ste per fecit opus r' So, all smile — 
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 
Under the cover of a hundred wings 
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're 

gay 
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, 
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops^ 
The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle off 
To some safe bench behind, not letting go 
The palm of her, the little lily thing 
That spoke the good word for me in the nick, 



BR0WNING*S:P0EMS. 205 

Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would 

say. 
And so all's saved for me, and for the church 
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months 

hence! 
Your hand, sir, and good-bye : no lights, no 

lights! 
The street's hushed, and I know my own way 

back, 
Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. 

Zooks! 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 

(called "the faultless painter.") 

But do not let us quarrel any more. 
No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once: 
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 
You turn your face, but does it bring your 

heart? 
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never 

fear, 
Treat his own subject after his own way. 
Fix his own time, accept too his own price. 
And shut the money into this small hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow. Love! 
I often am much wearier than you thiak. 
This evening more than usual : and it seems 
As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 
Here by the window, with your hand in mine, 
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 
Both of one mind, as married people use 



206 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Quietly, quietly the evening through, 

I might get up to-morrow to my work 

Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 

To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! 

Your soft hand is a woman of itself. 

And mine, the man's bared breast she curls 

inside. 
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must 

serve 
For each of the five pictures we require: 
It saves a model. So! keep looking so — 
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! 
— How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet — 
My face, my moon, m)^ everybody's moon. 
Which everybody looks on and calls his, 
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. 
While she looks — no one's: very dear, no less. 
You smile? why, there's my picture ready 

made. 
There's what we painters call our harmony! 
A common greyness silvers everything, — ■ 
All in a twilight, you and I alike 
— You, at the point of your first pride in me 
(That's gone, you know) — but I, at every 

point ; 
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned 

down 
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
There's the bell clinking from the chapel top; 
That length of convent-wall across the way 
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; 
The last monk leaves the garden; days 

decrease, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 207 

And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 

Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, 

As if I saw alike my work and self 

And all that I was born to be and do, 

A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. 

How strange now, looks the life he makes us 

lead; 
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! 
This chamber, for example — turn your head — 
All that's behind us! You don't understand 
Nor care to understand about my art, 
But you can hear at least when people speak: 
And that cartoon, the second from the door 
— It is the thing, Love ! so such things should 

be: 
Behold Madonna! — I am bold to say. 
I can do with my pencil what I know. 
What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge. 
Who listened to the Legate's talk last week; 
And just as much they used to say in France. 
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! 
No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: 
I do what many dream of, all their lives. 
• — Dream? strive to do, and agonise to do, 
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such 
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town. 
Who strive? — you don't know how the others 

strive 
To paint a little thing like that you smeared 
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 



208 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Yet do much less, so much less, Some one says, 
(I know his name, no matter) — so much less! 
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. 
There burns a truer light of God in them. 
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up 

brain, 
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to 

prompt 
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of 

mine. 
Their works drop ground ward, but themselves, 

I know 
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to 

me. 
Enter and take their place there sure enough, 
Though they come back and cannot tell the 

world. 
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. 
The sudden blood of these men! at a word — 
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils 

too. 
I, painting from myself and to myself, 
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame 
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, 
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, 
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? 
Speak as they please, what does the mountain 

care? 
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, 
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey. 
Placid and perfect with my art : the worse ! 
I know both what I want and what might gain ; 
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 209 

"Had I been two, another and myself, 

*'Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" 

No doubt. 
Yonder' s a work now, of that famous youth 
The Urbinate who died five years ago. 
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 
Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, 
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, 
Above and through his art — for it gives way ; 
That arm is wrongly put — and there again — 
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, 
Its body, so to speak : it soul is right, 
He means right — that, a child may understand. 
Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 
But all the play, the insight and the stretch — 
Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? 
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul. 
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. 
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 
More than I merit, yes, by many times. 
But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow, 
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth. 
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 
Had you, with these the same, but brought a 

mind ! 
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged 
*'God and the glory! never care for gain. 
**The present by the future, what is that? 
**Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 
** Rafael is waiting; up to God, all three!" 
I might have done it for you. So it seems ; 
Perhaps not. All is as God over- rules. 

14 



210 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Beside, incentive comes from the soul's self; 
The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 
In this world, who can do a thing, will not ; 
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 
Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat too, the 

power — 
And thus we half -men struggle. At the end, 
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
For me, 'tis safer, if the award be strict, 
That I am something underrated here, 
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the 

truth. 
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
The best is when they pass and look aside ; 
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all, 
Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first 

time, 
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, 
In that humane great monarch's golden look, — 
One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
Over his mouth's good mark that made the 

smile, 
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, 
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
I painting proudly with his breath on me. 
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes. 
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — 
And best of all, this, this, this face beyond, 
This in the background, waiting on my work, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 211 

To crown the issue with a last reward ! 
A good time, was it not, my kingly days? 
And had yon not grown restless . . . but I 

know — 
'Tis done and passed; 'twas right, my instinct 

said ; 
Too live the life grew, golden and not grey: 
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should 

tempt 
Out of the grange whose four walls make his 

world. 
How could it end in any other way? 
You called me, and I came home to your heart. 
The triumph was, to have ended there ; then, 

if 
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? 
Let my hands frame your face in your hair's 

gold, 
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; 
"The Roman's is the better when you pray, 
"But still the other's Virgin was his wife—" 
•Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 
Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows 
My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
Said one day Agnolo, his very self, 
To Rafael ... I have known it all these 

years ... 
(When the young man was flaming out his 

thoughts 
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, 
Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub 



212 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

*'Goes up and down our Florence, none cares 

how, 
*'Who, were he set to plan and execute 
*'As you are, pricked on by your popes and 

kings, 
** Would bring the sweat into that brow of 

yours!" 
To Rafael's! — And indeed the arm is wrong. 
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 
Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should 

go! 
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael, rub it out! 
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, — 
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
Do you forget already words like those?) 
If really there was such a chance so lost, — 
Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more 

pleased. 
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! 
This hour has been an hour! Another smile? 
If you would sit thus by me every night 
I should work better, do you comprehend? 
I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; 
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, 
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 
Come from the window love, — come in, at last. 
Inside the melancholy little house 
We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
King Francis may forgive me; oft at nights 
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 
The walls become illumined, brick from brick 
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, 
That gold of his I did cement them with ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 213 

Let us but love each other. Must you go? 
That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 
Must see you — you, and not with me? Those 

loans 
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for 

that? 
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to 

spend? 
While hand and eye and something of a heart 
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it 

worth? 
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
The grey remainder of the evening out. 
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
How I could paint, were I but back in France, 
One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face, 
Not yours this time ! I want you at my side 
To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. 
I take the subjects for his corridor, 
Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. 
And throw him in another thing or two 
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough 
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, 
What's better and what's all I care about. 
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! 
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what 

does he. 
The Cousin! what does he to please you more? 

I am grown peacerul as old age to-night. 
I regret little, I would change still less, 
Since there my past life lies, why alter it? 



214 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The very wrong to Francis! — it is true 

I took his coin, was tempted and complied, 

And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 

My father and my mother died of want. 

Well, had I riches of my own? you see 

How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. 

They were born, poor, lived poor, and poor 

they died: 
And I have labored somewhat in my time 
And not been paid profusely. Some good son 
Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try! 
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. 

Yes, 
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 
This must suffice me here. What would one 

have? 
In heaven, perhaps, nev/ chances, one more 

chance — 
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
Meted on each side by the angel's reed, 
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me 
To cover — the tree first without a wife, 
While I have mine ! So — still they overcome 
Because there's still Lucrezia — as I choose. 

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. 



BROWNIXG'S POEMS. 215 

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT 
SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH. 

ROME, 15 — . 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! 

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? 

Nephews — sons mine . . . ah, God, I know 

not! Well- 
She, men would have to be your mother once, 
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! 
What's done is done, and she is dead beside. 
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. 
And as she died so must we die ourselves. 
And thence ye may perceive the world's a 

dream. 
Life, how and what is it? As here I He 
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 
**Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems 

all. 
Saint Praxed's ever was the church of peace; 
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought 
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: 
— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; 
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner 

South 
He graced his carrion with, God curse the 

same! 
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 
One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, 
And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, 
And up into the aery dome where live 
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: 



216 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, 
And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, 
With those nine columns round me, two and 

two, 
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands : 
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe 
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 
— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, 
Put me where I may look at him ! True peach. 
Rosy and flawless; how I earned the prize! 
Draw close : that conflagration of my church 
— What then? So much was saved if aught 

were missed ! 
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig 
The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press 

stood. 
Drop water gently till the surface sink, 
And if ye find . . . Ah, God, I know not, 

I! . . . 
Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft. 
And corded up in a tight olive-frail. 
Some lump, ah, God, of lapis lazuli, 
^ig as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . 
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, 
That brave Frascati villa with its bath, 
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, 
Like God the Father's globe on both his hands 
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay 
For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: 
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? 
Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black — 
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 217 

Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? 
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, 
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and per- 
chance 
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, 
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount. 
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, 
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know 
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee. 
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope 
To revel down my villas while I gasp 
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine 
AVhich Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! 
Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then! 
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve 
My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut. 
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world — 
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray 
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts 
And mistresses with g^eat smooth marbly 

limbs? 
— That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every 

word. 
No gaudy ware like Gandolf 's second line — 
Tully, my masters? Upian serves his need! 
And then how I shall lie through centuries, 
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 
And see God made and eaten all day long, 
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste 
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! 
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, 



218 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Dying- in state and by such slow degrees, 
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, 
And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can 

point, 
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop 
Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work: 
And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange 

thoughts 
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, 
About the life before I lived this life. 
And this life, too, popes, cardinals and priests, 
Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount. 
Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, 
And new-found agate urns as fresh as day. 
And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, 
— Aha, elucescebat quoth our friend? 
No Tully, said 1, Ulpian at the best! 
Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. 
All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope 
My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? 
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, 
They glitter like your mother's for my soul, 
Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze. 
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase 
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, 
And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 
That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 
To comfort me on my entablature 
Whereon I am to lie till T must ask 
*'Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, 

there ! 
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 
To death : ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! Stone — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 219 

Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which 

sweat 
As if the corpse they keep were oozing 

through — 
And no more lapis to delight the world! 
Well, go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, 
But in a row; and, going, turn your backs" 
—Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 
And leave me in my church, the church for 

peace 
That I may watch at leisure if he leers- 
Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone, 
As still he envied me, so fair she was! 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. 



Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to 

find! 
I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove 

me deaf and blind ; 
But although I take your meaning, 'tis with 

such a heavy mind! 

II 

Here you come with your old music, and here's 

all the good it brings. 
What, they lived once thus at Venice where 

the merchants were the kings, 
Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to 

wed the sea with rings? 



220 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Ill 



Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis 
arched by . . . what you call 

. . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where 
they kept the carnival : 

I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it 
all. 

IV 

Did young people take their pleasure when the 

sea was warm in May? 
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning 

ever to midday, 
When they made up fresh adventures for the 

morrow, do you say? 



Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and 

lips so red, — 
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a 

bell-flower on its bed, 
O'er the breast's superb abundance where a 

man might base his head? 



VI 

Well, and it was graceful of them; they'd 

break talk off and afford 
— She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to 

finger on his sword. 
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at 

the clavichord? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 221 

VII 

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths 

diminished, sigh on sigh, 
Told them something? Those suspensions, 

those solutions — "Must we die?" 
Those commiserating sevenths — '*Life might 

last! we can but try!" 

VIII 

"Were you happy?"— "Yes."— "And are you 
still as happy?" — "Yes. And you?" 

—"Then, more kisses !"—" Did I stop them, 
when a million seemed so few?" 

Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be 
answered to! 



IX 

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they 

praised you, I dare say! 
"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at 

grave and gay! 
"I can always leave off talking when I hear a 

master play!" 



Then they left you for their pleasure : till in 

due time, one by one. 
Some with lives that came to nothing, some 

with deeds as well undone. 
Death stepped tacitly and took them where 

they never see the sun. 



222 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XI 



But when I sit down to reason, think to take 

my stand nor swerve, 
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from 

nature's close reserve, 
In you come with your cold music till I creep 

thro' every nerve. 

XII 

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where 

a house was burned : 
'*Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice 

spent what Venice earned. 
"The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a 

soul can be discerned. 



XIII 

*'Yours, for instance: you know physics, some- 
thing of geology, 

*' Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall 
rise in their degree; 

*' Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not 
die, it cannot be ! 

XIV 

**As for Venice and her people, merely born 

to bloom and drop, 
**Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth 

and folly were the crop : 
*'What of soul was left, I wonder, when the 

kissing had to stop? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 223 



XV 



*'Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I 

want the heart to scold. 
Dear dead woman, with such hair, too — 

what's become of all the gold 
Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel 

chilly and grown old. 



HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. 

I only knew one poet in my life: 

And this, or something like it, was his way. 

You saw go up and down Valladolid, 
A man of mark, to know next time you saw. 
His very serviceable suit of black 
Was courtly once and conscientious still. 
And many might have worn it, though none 

did: 
The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed 

the threads. 
Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. 
He walked, and tapped the pavement with his 

cane. 
Scenting the world, looking it full in face : 
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. 
They turned up, now, the alley by the church, 
That leads no whither; now, they breathed 

themselves 
On the main promenade just at the wrong 

time. 
You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, 
Making a peaked shade blacker than itself 



224 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Against the single window spared some house 
Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work, — 
Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick 
Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks 
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. 
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade. 
The man who slices lemon into drink, 
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys 
That volunteer to help him turn its winch. 
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an 

eye, 
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, 
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. 
He took such cognizance of men and things, 
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw ; 
If any cursed a woman, he took note ; 
Yet stared at nobody, — you stared at him. 
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, 
He seemed to know you and expect as much. 
So, next time that neighbor's tongue was 

loose, 
It marked the shameful and notorious fact 
We had among us, not so much a spy 
As a recording chief- inquisitor. 
The town's true master if the town but knew! 
We merely kept a governor for form. 
While this man walked about and took account 
Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, 
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King, 
Who has an itch to know things, he knows 

why, 
And reads them in his bed-room of a night. 
Oh, you might smile ! there wanted not a touch 
A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 225 

As back into your mind the man's look came. 
Stricken in years a little, such a brow 
His eyes had to live under! — clear as flint 
On either side o' the formidable nose 
Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw. 
Had he to do with A. 's surprising fate? 
When altogether old B. disappeared 
And young C. got his mistress, — was 't our 

friend, 
His letter to the King, that did it all? 
What paid the bloodless man for so much 

pains? 
Our Lord the King has favorites manifold, 
And shifts his ministry some once a month ; 
Our city gets new governors at whiles, — 
But never word or sign, that I could hear, 
Notified, to this man about the streets. 
The King's approval of those letters conned 
The last thing duly at the dead of night. 
Did the man love his office? Frowned our 

Lord, 
Exhorting when none heard — '* Beseech me 

not! 
**Too far above my people, — beneath me! 
*'I set the watch, — how should the people 

know? 
** Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" 
Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? 

I found no truth in one report at least — 
That if you tracked him to his home, down 

lanes 
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, 
You found he ate his supper in a room 

15 Browning 



226 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, 
And twenty naked girls to change his plate! 
Poor man, he lived another kind of life 
In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, 
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise ! 
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, 
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back. 
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid 
(Jacynth you're sure her name was) o'er the 

cheese 
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter- 
pears, 
Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, 
Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed 
went he. 

My father, like the man of sense he was, 
Would point him out to me a dozen times; 
*'St— St," he'd whisper, *'the Corregidor!" 
I had been used to think that personage 
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, 
And feathers like a forest in his hat. 
Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news. 
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church 

its turn, 
And memorized the miracle in vogue ! 
He had a great observance from us boys: 
We were in error; that was not the man. 

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid. 
To have just looked, when this man came to 

die, 
And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, 
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 227 

With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. 
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, 
Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and 

death. 
Doing the King's work all the dim day long, 
In his old coat and up to knees in mud, 
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, — 
And, now the da}^ was won, relieved at once! 
No further show or need of that old coat, 
You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all 

the while 
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I ! 
A second, and the angels alter that. 
Well, I could never write a verse, — could you? 
Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. 

PROTUS. 

Among these latter busts we count by scores, 

Half-emperors and quarter-emperors. 

Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged 

vest, 
Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast — 
One loves a baby face, with violets there, 
Violets instead of laurel in the hair, 
As those were all the little locks could bear 

Now read here. "Protus ends a period 
*'Of empery beginning with a god: 
"Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, 
*' Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant; 
*'And if he quickened breath there, 'twould 

like fire 
*'Pantingly through the dim vast realm trans- 
pire. 



228 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

*'A fame that he was missing, spread afar: 
*'The world, from its four corners, rose in war, 
*'Till he was borne out on a balcony 
*'To pacify the world when it should see. 
*'The captains ranged before him, one, his 

hand 
*'Made baby points at, gained the chief com- 
mand. 
*'And day by day more beautiful he grew 
*'In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, 
*' While young Greek sculptors gazing on the 

child 
*' Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled. 
"Already sages labored to condense 
"In easy tomes a life's experience: 
"And artists took grave counsel to impart 
"In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their 

art, 
"And make his graces propt as blossoming 
"Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: 
"Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the 

throne, 
"For beauty, knowledge, strength, should 

stand alone, 
"And mortals love the letters of his name. " 

—Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the 

same. 
New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to 

say 
How that same year, on such a month and day, 
"John the Pannonian, groundedly believed 
"A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand 

reprieved 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 229 

*'The Empire from its fate the year before,— 
"Came, had a mind to take the crown, and 

wore 
*'The same for six years (during which the 

Huns 
"Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons 
"Put something in his liquor" — and so forth. 
Then a new reign. Stay— "Take at its just 

worth" 
(Subjoins an annotator) "what I give 
"As heresay. Some think, John let Protus live 
"And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached man's 

age 
"At some blind northern court made, first a 

page, 
"Then tutor to the children last, of use 
"About the hunting stables. I deduce 
"He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,' 
"Whereof the name in sundry catalogues 
"Is extant yet. A Protus of the race 
"Is rumored to have died a monkin Thrace, — 
"And, if the same, he reached senility." 

Here'sjohn the Smith's rough-hammered head. 

Great eye. 
Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can 
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man ! 

MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. 



Hist, but a word, fair and soft 

Forth and be judged. Master Hugues! 
Answer the question I've put you so oft: 



230 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

What do you mean by your mountainous 
fugues? 
See, we're alone in the loft, — 



I, the poor organist here, 

Hugues, the composer of note 
Dead though, and done with, this many a year: 

Let's have a coloquy, something to quote, 
Make the world prick up its ear! 

Ill 

See, the church empties apace: 

Fast they extinguish the lights, 
Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes' grace ! 

Here's a crank pedal wants setting to rights. 
Baulks one of holding the base. 

IV 

See, our huge house of the sounds, 

Hushing its hundreds at once. 
Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds! 

— O you may challenge them, not a response 
Get the church-saints on their rounds! 



(Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt 
— March, with the moon to admire. 

Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, 
Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire. 

Put rats and mice to the rout — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 231 



VI 



Aloys and Jurien and Just — 

Order things back to their place, 
Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust, 

Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament 
lace, 
Clear the desk- velvet of dust.) 

VII 

Here's your book, younger folks shelve! 
Played I not off-hand and runningly, 
Just now, your masterpiece, hard number 
twelve? 
Here's what should strike, could one handle 
it cunningly: 
Help the axe, give it a helve ! 

VIII 

Page after page as I played, 

Every bar's rest, where one wipes 

Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and sur- 
veyed. 
O'er my three claviers, you forest of pipes 

Whence you still peeped in the shade. 

IX 

Sure you were wishful to speak. 
You, with brow ruled like a score. 

Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek. 
Like two great breves, as they wrote them 
of yore. 

Each side that bar, your straight beak! 



232 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Sure you said — "Good, the mere notes! 

*' Still, couldst thou take my intent, 
*'Know what procured me our Company's 
votes — 

"A master were lauded and sciolists shent, 
"Parted the sheep from the goats!" 

XI 

Well, then, speak up, never flinch ! 

Quick, ere my candle's a snuff 
— Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch — 

I believe in you, but that's not enough: 
Give my conviction a clinch! 

XII 

First you deliver your phrase 

— Nothing propound, that I see. 
Fit in itself for much blame or much praise — 

Answered no less, where no answer needs be : 
Off start the Two on their ways. 

XIII 

Straight must a Third interpose. 

Volunteer needlessly help ; 
In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose, 

So the cry's open, the kennel's a yelp. 
Argument's hot to the close. 

XIV 

One dissertates, he is candid ; 

Two must discept, — has distinguished; 
Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 233 

Four protests ; Five makes a dart at the thing 
wished : 
Back to One, goes the case bandied. 

XV 

One saysjhis say with a difference; 

More ok expounding, explaining! 
All now is wrangle, abuse and vociferance ; 

Now there's a truce, all's subdued, self -re- 
straining : 
Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. 

XVI 

One is incisive, corrosive; 

Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; 
Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive ; 

Four overbears them all, strident and strep- 
itant: 
Five . . . O Danaides, O Sieve! 

XVII 

Now, they ply axes and crowbars ; 

Now, they prick pins at a tissue 
Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's 

Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue? 
Where is our gain at the Two-bars? 

XVIII 

Estfuga, volvitur rota. 

On we drift: where looms the dim port? 
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their 
quota ; 

16 Browning 



234 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Something is gained, if one caught but the 
import — 
Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha! 

XIX 

What with affirming, denying, 

Holding, risposting, subjoining, 
All's like .... it's like .... for an instance 
I'm trying . . . 
There ! See our roof, its gilt moulding and 
groining 
Under those spider-webs lying! 

XX 

So your fugue broadens and thickens, 

Greatens and deepens and lengthens, 

Till we exclaim, — "But where 's music, the 

dickens? 
*'Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web 

strengthens 
** — Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?*' 

XXI 

I for man's effort am zealous: 

Prove me such censure unfounded! 

Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous — 
Hopes 'twas for something, his organ pipes 
sounded 

Tiring three boys at the bellows? 

XXII 

Is it your moral of Life? 

Such a web, simple and subtle, 
Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 235 

Backward and forward each throwing his 
shuttle, 
Death ending all with a knife? 

XXIII 

Over our heads truth and nature — 
Still our life's zigzags and dodges, 

Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature — 
God's gold just shining its last where that 
lodges, 

Palled beneath man's usurpature. 

XXIV 

So we o'ershroud stars and roses. 

Cherub and trophy and garland; 
Nothings grow something which quietly closes 

Heaven's earnest eye: not a glimpse of the 
far land 
Gets through our comments and glozes. 

XXV 

Ah, but traditions, inventions, 

(Say we and make up a visage) 
So many men with such various intentions, 

Down the past ages, must know more than 
this age! 
Leave me the web its dimensions! 

XXVI 

Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, 

Proved a mere mountain in labor? 
Better submit ; try again; what's the clef ? 

Faith, 'tis no trifle for pipe and for tabor- 
Four flats, the minor in F. 



236 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XXVII 



Friend, your fugue taxes the finger: 

Learning it once, who would lose it? 
Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, 
Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse 
it- 
Nature, thro' cobwebs we string her. 

XXVIII 

Hugues ! I advise mea poena 

(Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) 
Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the 
arena ! 
Say the word, straight I unstop the full- 
organ, 
Blare out the mode Palestrina. 

XXIX 

While in the roof, if I'm right there, 

. . . Lo you, the wick in the socket ! 
Hallow, you sacristan, show us a light there! 

Down it dips, gone like a rocket. 
What, you want, do you, to come unawares. 
Sweeping the church up for first morning- 
prayers. 
And find a poor devil has ended his cares 
At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled 
stairs? 
Do I carry the moon in my pocket? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 237 

ABT VOGLER. 
(after he has been extemporizing upon the 

MUSICAL instrument OF HIS INVENTION.) 



Would that the structure brave, the manifold 
music I build, 
Bidding- my organ obey, calling its keys to 
their work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, 
as when Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons 
that lurk, 
Man, brute, reptile fly, — alien of end and of 
aim, 
Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, 
hell-deep removed, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the 
ineffable Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure 
the princess he loved! 



Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful 
building of mine, 
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and 
importuned to raise! 

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dis- 
part now and now combine, 
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their 
master his praise ! 

And one would bury his brow with a blind 
plunge down to hell, 



238 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots 

of things, 
Then up again swim into sight, having based 

me my palace well, 
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the 

nether springs. 

Ill 

And another would mount and march, like 
the excellent minion he was. 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but 
with many a crest. 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as trans- 
parent as glass, 
Eager to do and die, yield each his place to 
the rest: 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips 
with fire. 
When a great illumination surprises a festal 
night — 
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from 
space to spire) 
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the 
pride of my soul was in sight. 

IV 

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was cer- 
tain, to match man's birth. 
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an 
impulse as I 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made 
effort to reach the earth. 
As the earth had done her best, in my pas- 
sion, to scale the sky: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 239 

Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and 
dwelt with mine, 
Not a point nor peak but found, but fixed its 
wandering star 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not 
pale nor pine. 
For earth had attained to heaven, there was 
no more near nor far. 



Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked 
in the glare and glow, 
Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from 
the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier 
wind should blow. 
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to 
their liking at last ; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed 
through the body and gone. 
But were back once more to breathe in an 
old world worth their new : 
What never had been, was now ; what was, as 
it shall be anon ; 
And what is, — shall I say, matched both? for 
I was made perfect too. 

VI 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to 

a wish of my soul. 
All through my soul that praised as its wish 

flowed visibly forth, 
All through music and me! For think, had I 

painted the whole, 



240 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the 
process so wonder- worth. 
Had I written the same, made verse — still, 
effect proceeds from cause, 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear 
how the tale is told ; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience 
to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list 
enrolled : — 

VII 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the 
will that can. 
Existent behind all laws: that made them, 
and, lo, they are! 
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be 
allowed to man, 
That out of three sounds he frame, not a 
fourth sound, but a star. 
Consider it well: each tone of our scale iji itself 
is nought; 
It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, 
and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my 
thought. 
And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : con- 
sider and bow the head ! 

VIII 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I 
reared ; 
Gone! and the good tears start, the praises 
that come too slow ; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 241 

For one is assured at first, one scarce can say- 
that he feared, 
That he even gave it a thought, the gone 
thing was to go. 
Never to be again ! But many more of the kind 
As good, nay, better perchance : is this your 
comfort to me? 
To me, who must be saved because I cling 
with my mind 
To the same, same self, same love, same 
God ; ay, what was, shall be. 

IX 

Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the 
ineffable Name? 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made 
with hands! 
What, have fear of change from thee who art 
ever the same? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that 
thy power expands? 
There shall never be one lost good! What 
was, shall live as before ; 
The evil is null, is nought, is silence imply- 
ing sound ; 
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, 
so much good more ; 
On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, 
a perfect round. 



All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of 
good, shall exist; 

16 



242 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, 
nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives 
for the melodist. 
When eternity affirms the conceptions of an 
hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for 
earth too hard. 
The passion that left the ground to lose itself 
in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the 
bard; 
Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear 
it by-and-by. 



XI 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's 
evidence 
For the fulness of the days? Have we with- 
ered or agonized? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but that 
singing might issue thence? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that har- 
mony should be prized? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to 
clear, 
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the 
weal and woe: 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in 
the ear; 
The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we 
musicians know. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 243 

XII 

Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her 
reign : 
I will be patient and proud, and soberly 
acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common 
chord again, 
Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, 
—yes. 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on 
alien ground. 
Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from 
into the deep: 
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my 
resting-place is found. 
The C Major of this life: so, now I will try 
to sleep. 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 



I wonder do you feel to-day 

As I have felt since, hand in hand, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better through the land, 

This morn of Rome and May? 

II 

For me, I touched a thought, I know, 
Has tantalized me many times, 

(Like turns of thread the spiders throw 
Mocking across our path) for rhymes 

To catch at and let go. 



244 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Ill 

Help me to hold it! First it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, 
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft, 

IV 

Where one small orange cup amassed 

Five beetles, — blind and green they grope 

Among the honey-meal: and last, 
Everywhere on the grassy slope, 

I traced it. Hold it fast! 



The champaign with its endless fleece 

Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 
Silence i.nd passion, joy and peace. 

And everlasting wash of air — 
Rome's ghost since her decease. 

VI 

Such life here, through such lengths of hours, 
Such miracles performed in play. 

Such primal naked forms of flowers. 
Such letting nature have her way 

While heaven looks from its towers! 

VII 

How say you? Let us, O my dove, 

Let us be unashamed of soul, 
As earth lies bare to heaven above! 

How is it under our control 
To love or not to love? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 245 



VIII 



I would that you were all to me, 
You that are just so much, no more. 

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 
Where does the fault lie? What the core 

O' the wound, since wound must be? 



IX 



I would T could adopt your will. 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 

Beating by yours, and drink my fill 

At your soul's springs, — your part, my part 

In life, for good and ill. 



No. I yearn upward, touch you close. 
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. 

Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose 
And love it more than tongue can speak — 

Then the good minute goes. 

XI 

Already how am I so far 

Out of that minute? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar. 

Onward, wherever light winds blow, 

Fixed by no friendly star? 

XII 

Just when I seemed about to learn! 

Where is the thread now? Off again. 
The old trick! Only I discern — 

Infinite passion, and the pain 
Of finite hearts that yearn. 



246 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"DE GUSTIBUS— " 



Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 

(If your lovers remain) 

In an English lane, 
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
Hard, those two in the hazel coppice — 
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, 

Making love, say, — 

The happier they! 
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, 
And let them pass, as they will too soon. 

With the beanflower's boon, 

And the blackbird's tune, 

And May, and June! 



What I love best in all the world 
Is a castle, precipice-encurled. 
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 
Or look for me, old fellow of mine, 
(If I get my head from out the mouth 
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands 
And come again to the land of lands) — 
In a sea-side house to the farther South, 
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth, 
And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands, 
By the many hundred years red-rusted, 
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My sentinel to guard the sands 
To the water's edge. For, what expands 
Before the house, but the great opaque 
Blue breadth of sea without a break? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 247 

While, in the house, for ever crumbles 

Some fragment of the frescoed walls, 

From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 

A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 

Down on the pavement, green- flesh melons, 

And says there's news to-day — the king 

Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, 

Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling : 

— She hopes they have not caught the felons. 

Italy, my Italy! 

Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 

(When fortune's malice 

Lost her, Calais) 
Open your heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, "Italy." 
Such lovers old are I and she : 
So it always was, so shall ever be. 



THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

A PICTURE AT FANO. 



Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou not leave 
That child, when thou hast done with him, 
for me ! 

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
Shall find performed thy special ministry. 

And time come for departure, thou, suspending 

Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, 
Another still to quiet and retrieve. 



248 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, 
From where thou standest now, to where I 
gaze. 
— And suddenly my head is covered o'er 

With those wings, white above the child who 
prays 
Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee 

guarding 
Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding 
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its 
door. 

Ill 
I would not look up thither past thy head 
Because the door opens, like that child, I 
know. 
For I should have thy gracious face instead, 
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me 
low 
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together. 
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garments 
spread? 

IV 

If this was ever granted, I would rest 

My head beneath thine, while thy healing 
hands 
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast. 
Pressing the brain which too much thought 
expands. 
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, 
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 249 



How soon all wordly wrong would be repaired ! 

I think how I should view the earth and skies 
And sea, when once again my brow was bared 

After thy healing, with such different eyes. 
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: 
And knowing this is love, and love is duty. 

What further may be sought for or declared? 

VI 

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach 

(Alfred, dear friend!)— that little child to 
pray, 
Holding the little hands up, each to each 
Pressed gently, — with his own head turned 
away 
Over the earth where so much lay before him 
Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er 
him, 
And' he was left at Fane by the beach. 

VII 

We were at Fano, and three times we went 
To sit and see him in his chapel there 

And drink his beauty to our soul's content 
— My angel with me, too; and since I care 

For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power 

And glory comes this picture for a dower, 
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent), 

VIII 

And since he did not work thus earnestly 
At all times, and has else endured some 
wrong — 



250 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

I took one thought his picture struck from me, 
And spread it out, translating it to song, 

My love is here. Where are you, dear old 
friend? 

How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? 
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. 

EVELYN HOPE. 



Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass; 

Little has yet been changed, I think: 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 



Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 
It was not her time to love ; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Ill 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 251 

And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 

Each was nought to each, must I be told? 
We were fellow mortals, nought beside? 

IV 

No, indeed! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love : 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
Delay it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time to come for taking you. 



But the time will come, at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still. 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And 5^our mouth of your own geranium's red 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

VI 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes: 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me : 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue? let us see! 



252 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



VII 



I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold ; 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile. 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
young gold. 
So hush — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it mside the sweet cold hand! 
There, that is our secret: go to sleep! 

You will vv^ake, and remember, and under- 
stand. 



MEMORABILIA. 



Ah, did you once see Shelley plain. 
And did he stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again 
How strange it seems, and new! 



But you were living before that, 

And also you are living after; 
And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter! 

Ill 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 

Yet a hand's breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 253 



IV 



For there I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! 
Well, I forget the rest. 

APPARENT FAILURE. 

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building." 

Paris Newspaper. 

I 

No, for I'll save it! Seven years since, 

I passed through Paris, stopped a day 
To see the baptism of your Prince ; 

Saw, made my bow, and went my way. 
Walking the heat and headache off, 

I took the Seine-side, you surmise. 
Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, 

Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, 
So sauntered till — what met my eyes? 



Only the Doric little Morgue! 

The dead-house where you show your 
drowned : 
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue. 

Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned. 
One pays one's debt in such a case ; 

I plucked up heart and entered, — stalked. 
Keeping a tolerable face 

Compared with some whose cheeks were 
chalked : 
Let them! No Briton's to be baulked! 



254 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

m 

First came the silent gazers ; next, 

A screen of glass, we're thankful for: 
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text. 

The three men who did most abhor 
Their life in Paris yesterday. 

So killed themselves: and now, enthroned 
Each on his copper couch, they lay 

Frontiag me, waiting to be owned. 
I thought, and think, their sin's atoned. 

IV 

Poor men, God made, and all for that ! 

The reverence struck me; o'er each head 
Religiously was htmg its hat. 

Each coat dripped by the owner's bed. 
Sacred from touch: each had his berth. 

His bounds, his proper place of rest. 
Who last night tenanted on earth 

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, 
Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. 



How did it happen, my poor boy? 

You wanted to be Buonaparte 
And have the Tuileries for toy. 

And could not, so it broke your heart. 
You, old one by his side, I judge, 

Were, red as blood, a socialist, 
A leveler! Does the Empire grudge 

You've gained what no Republic missed? 
Be quiet, and unclench your fist ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 255 



VI 



And this — why, he was red in vain, 

Or black, — poor fellow that is blue! 
What fancy was it turned your brain? 

Oh, women were the prize for you ! 
Money gets women, cards and dice 

Get money, and ill-luck gets just 
The copper couch and one clear nice 

Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, 
The right thing to extinguish lust ! 

VII 

It's wiser being good than bad; 

It's safer being meek than fierce 
It's fitter being sane than mad. 

My own hope is a sun will pierce 
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched ; 

That, after Last, returns the First, 
Though a wide compass round be fetched ; 

That what began best, can't end worst, 
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst. 



PROSPICE. 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the storm. 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible 
form. 

Yet the strong man must go : 



256 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

For the journey is done and the summit at- 
tained, 
And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be 
gained, 
The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, 
and forbore, 
And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my 
peers 
The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's 
arrears 
Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the 
brave. 
The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that 
rave, 
Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of 
pain. 
Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee 
again. 
And with God be the rest! 




Acquiescingly I did turn as he pc 

Browning's Poems. 



Page 257, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 257 

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK 
TOWER CAME." 

(See Edgar's song in "Lear.") 

My first thought was, he lied in every word, 
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye 
Askance to watch the working of his lie 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored 
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. 

II 

What else should he be set for, with his staff? 

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare 

All travelers who might find him posted 

there, 

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like 

laugh 
Would break, what crutch 'gin write, my epi- 
taph 
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, 

III 
If at his counsel I should turn aside 

Into that ominous tract which, all agree. 
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly 
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride 
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, 
So much as gladness that some end might be. 

IV 

For what with my whole world-wide wander- 
ing, 

17 Browning 



258 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

What with my search drawn out thro* years, 

my hope 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 
With that obstreperous joy success would 

bring,— 
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 

My heart made, finding failure in its scope. 



As when a sick man very near to death 

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end 
The tears and takes the farewell of each 
friend, 
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath 
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, 
"And the blow fallen no grieving can 
amend;") 

VI 

While some discuss if near the other graves 
Be room enough for this, and when a day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 

With care about the banners, scarves and 
staves ; 

And still the man hears all, and only craves 
He may not shame such tender love and stay. 

VII 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ 
So many times among "The Band" — to- wit, 

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search 
addressed 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 259 

Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed 
best, 
And all the doubt was now — should I be fit? 

VIII 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, 
That hateful cripple, out of his highway 
Into the path he pointed. All the day 
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. 

IX 

For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found 
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,^ 
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view 

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all 
round : 

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. 
I might go on ; nought else remained to do. 



So, on I went. I think I never saw 

Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing throve : 
For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove ! 
But cockle, spurge, according to their law 
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe. 
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure 
trove. 

XI 

No ! penury, inertness and grimace. 

In sorne strange sort, were the land's por- 
tion. ' ' See 



260 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, 
'*It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 
*' 'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this 
place, 

"Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free. " 

XII 

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk 

Above its mates, the head was chopped; the 

bents 
Were jealous else. What made those holes 
and rents 
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as 

to baulk 
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk 
Pushing their life out, with a brute's intents. 

XIII 

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair 

In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded up with 
blood. 
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, 
Stood stupefied, however he came there : 

Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! 

XIV 

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know. 
With that red gaunt and colloped neck 

a-strain. 
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ; 
Seldom went such grotesqueness which such 

woe; 
I never saw a brute I hated so; 

He must be wicked to deserve such pain. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 261 



XV 



I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 
As a man calls for wine before he fights, 
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, 

Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 

Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier's art: 
One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 

XVI 

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face 
Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! 
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. 

XVII 

Giles then, the soul of honor — there he stands 
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. 
What honest man should dare (he said) he 
durst 
Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! what hang- 
man hands 
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands 
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst ! 

XVIII 

Better this present than a past like that ; 

Back therefore to my darkening path again ! 

No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. 
Will the night send a howlet or a bat? 
I asked; when something on the dismal flat 

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their 
train. 



262 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



XIX 



A sudden little river crossed my path 
As unexpected as a serpent comes. 
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; 
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the wrath 
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and 
spumes. 

XX 

So pretty yet so spiteful ! All along, 

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it ; 
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a 
fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng ; 
The river which had done them all the wrong, 
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no 
whit. 

XXI 

Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I 

feared 
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, 

Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek 
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard ! 
— It may have been a water-rat I speared, 

But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. 

XXII 

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. 
Now for a better country. Vain presage ! 
Who were the strugglers, what war did they 
wage 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 263 

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank 
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, 
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — 

XXIII 

The fight must so have seemed in that fell 
cirque. 
What penned them there, with all the plain 

to choose? 
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, 
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work 
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the 
Turk 
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. 

XXIV 

A.nd more than that — a furlong on — why, 
there! 
What bad use was that engine for, that 

wheel, 
Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to reel 
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air 
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware. 
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. 

XXV 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a 
wood, 
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere 

earth 
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds 
mirth. 
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood 
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood — 



264 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black 
dearth. 

XXVI 

Now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim, 
Now patches where some leanness of the 

soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like boils; 
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him 
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. 

XXVII 

And just as far as ever from the end. 

Nought in the distance but the evening, 

nought 
To point my footsteps further! At the 
thought, 
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend. 
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon- 
penned 
That brushed my cap — perchance the guide I 
sought. 

XXVIII 

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 

'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place 
All round to mountains — with such name to 
grace 
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in 

view. 
How thus they had surprised me, — solve it, 
you! 
How to get from them was no clearer case. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 265 

XXIX 

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick 
Of mischief happened to me, God knows 

when — 
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, 
Progress this way. When, in the very nick 
Of giving up, one time more, came a click 
As when a trap shuts — you're inside the den. 

XXX 

Burningly it came on me all at once, 

This was the place ! those two hills on the 

right. 
Couched like two bulls locked horn in horn 
in fight, 
While, to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . 

Dunce, 
Dotard, a- dozing at the very nonce. 

After a life spent training for the sight! 

XXXI 

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? 

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's 
heart, 

Built of brown stone, without a counterpart 
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf 
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf 

He strikes on, only when the timbers start. 

XXXII 

Not see? because of night perhaps? — why, day 
Came back again for that! before it left. 
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: 

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 

18 Browning 



266 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — 
"Now stab and end the creature — to the 
heft!" 

XXXIII 

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it 
tolled 
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears 
Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — 
How such a one was strong, and such was 

bold, 
And such was fortunate, yet each of old 
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of 
years. 
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, 
met 
To view the last of me, a living frame 
For one more picture ! in a sheet of flame 
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet 
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set. 

And blew "Childe Roland to the Dark Towef 
came." 

A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN 
EUROPE. 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 

Singing together. 
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar 
thorpes. 

Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain, 

Cared-tor till cock-crow : 






BROWNING'S POEMS. 267 

Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country; there, man's 
thought, 

Rarer, intenser, 
Self- gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 

Chafes in the censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop ; 

Seek we sepulture 
On a tall mountain, citied to the top, , 

Crowded with culture ! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; 

Clouds overcome it ; 
No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 
Thither our path lies ; wind we up the heights 

Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life was the level's and the nights: 

He's for the morning. 
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 

'Ware the beholders! 
This is our master, famous, calm and dead. 

Borne on our shoulders. 

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe 
and croft 

Safe from the weather ! 
He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing together. 
He was a man born with thy face and throat, 

Lyric Apollo ! 
Long he lived nameless: how should spring 
take note 

Winter would follow? 



268 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! 

Cramped and diminished, 
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! 

"My dance is finished?" 
No, that's the world's way; (keep the moun- 
tain-side, 

Make for the city!) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 

Over men's pity; 
Left play for work, and grappled with the world 

Benton escaping: 
"What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keep- 
est furled? 

"Show me their shaping, 
"Theirs who most studied man, the bard and 
sage,— 

"Give!" — So, he gowned him. 
Straight got by heart that book to its last page : 

Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead. 

Accents uncertain : 
"Time to taste life," another would have said, 

' ' Up with the curtain !" 
This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? 

"Patience a moment! 
"Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed 
text, 

"Still there's the comment. 
"Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, 

"Painful or easy! 
"Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, 

"Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 

When he had learned it. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 289 

When he had gathered all books had to give ! 

Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the parts — 

Fancy the fabric 
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from 
quartz. 

Ere mortar dab brick ! 

(Here's the town-gate reached; there's the 
market-place 

Gaping before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 

(Hearten our chorus!) 
That before living he'd learn how to live — 

No end to learning: 
Earn the means first — God surely will contrive 

Use for our earning. 
Others mistrust and say, '*But time escapes! 

"Live now or never!" 
He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs 
and apes! 

"Man has Forever." 
Back to his book then: deeper drooped his 
head: 

Calculus racked him : 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead : 

Tussis attacked him. 
**Now, master, take a little rest!" — not he! 

(Caution redoubled ! 
Step two a-breast, the way winds narrowly!) 

Not a whit troubled, 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first, 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 



270 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Sucked at the flagon. 
Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain. 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 

Bad is our bargain ! 
Was it not great? did not he throw on God 

(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly period 

Perfect the earthen? 
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear 

Just what it all meant? 
He would not discount life, as fools do here, 

Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's success 

Found, or earth's failure: 
**Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered 

•'Yes! 

"Hence with life's pale lure!" 
That low man seeks a little thing to do. 

Sees it and does it : 
This high man, with a great thing to pursue, 

Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to one, 

His hundred's soon hit: 
This high man, aiming at a Thillion, 

Misses an unit. 
That, has the world here — should he need the 
next, 

Let the world mind him ! 
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, 

Ground he at grammar; 
Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 271 

While he could stammer 
He settled Hoti's business — let it be ! — 

Properly based Oun — 
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, 

Dead from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper 
place : 

Hail to your purlieus, 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race, 

Swallows and curlews! 
Here's the top-peak; the multitude below 

Live, for they can, there: 
This man decided not to Live but Know — 

Bury this man there? 
Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, 
clouds form. 

Lightnings are loosened, 
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the 
storm. 

Peace let the dew send ! 
Lofty designs must close in like effects: 

Loftily lying. 
Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects. 

Living and dying. 



CLEON. 

**As certain also of your own poets have said" — 

Cleon the poet, from the sprinkled isles, 

Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea. 

And laugh their pride when the light wave 

lisps "Greece" — 
To Protus in his Tyranny : much health ! 



272 BROWNING'S POExMS. 

They give thy letter to me, even now: 
I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. 
The master of thy gallery still unlades 
Gift after gift; they block my court at last 
And pile themselves along its portico 
Royal with sunset, like a thought of thoe ; 
And one white she-slave, from the group dis- 
persed 
Of black and white slaves (like the chequer- 
work 
Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, 
Now covered with this settle-down of doves) 
One lyric woman, in her crocus vest 
Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands 
Commends to me the strainer and the cup 
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. 

Well-counseled, king, in thy munificence! 
For so shall men remark, in such an act 
Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, 
Thy recognition of the use of life: 
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate 
To help on life in straight ways, broad enough 
For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. 
Thou, in the daily building of thy tower, — 
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, 
Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, 
Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim. 
Climbed with the eye, to cheer the architect, — > 
Did'st ne'er engage in work for mere work's 

sake: 
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope 
Of some eventual rest a-top of it. 
Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 273 

Thou first of men mightst look out to the East: 
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. 
For this, I promise on thy festival 
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, 
Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak 
Thy great words and describe thy royal face — 
Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, 
Within the eventual element of calm. 

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. 
It is as thou hast heard : in one short life 
I, Cleon, have effected all those things 
Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. 
That epos on thy hundred plates of gold 
Is mine, and also mine the little chant 
So sure to rise from every fishing bark 
When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their 

ne<t. 
The image of the sun-god on the phare, 
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; 
The Poecile, o'er-storied its whole length. 
As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too, 
I know the true proportions of a man 
And woman also, not observed before , 
And I have written three books on the soul, 
Proving absurd all written hitherto, 
And putting us to ignorance again. 
For music, — why, I have combined the moods, 
Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine ; 
Thus much the people know and recognize. 
Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel 

not! 
We of these latter days, with greater mind 
Than our forerunners, since more composite, 



274 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Look not so great, beside their simple way, 

To a judge who only sees one way at once, 

One mind-point and no other at a time, — 

Compares the small part of a man of us 

With some whole man of the heroic age, 

Great in his way — not ours, nor meant for ours ; 

And ours is greater, had we skill to know. 

For, what we call this life of men on earth, 

This sequence of the soul's achievements here, 

Being, as I find much reason to conceive. 

Intended to be viewed eventually 

As a great whole, not analysed to parts, 

But each part having reference to all, — 

How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, 

Endure effacement by another part? 

Was the thing done? — then, what's to do again? 

See, in the chequered pavement opposite. 

Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, 

And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid — 

He did not overlay them, superimpose 

The new upon the old and blot it out. 

But laid them on a level in his work. 

Making at last a picture ; there it lies. 

So first the perfect separate forms were made, 

The portions of mankind ; and after, so. 

Occurred the combination of the same. 

For where had been a progress, otherwise? 

Mankind, made up of all the single men, — 

In such a synthesis the labor ends. 

Now mark me ! those divine men of old time 

Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one 

point 
The outside verge that rounds our faculty ; 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 275 

And where they reached, who can do more than 

reach? 
It takes but little water just to touch 
At some one point the inside of a sphere, 
And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest 
In due succession : but the finer air 
Which not so palpably nor obviously. 
Though no less universally, can touch 
The whole circumference of that emptied 

sphere, 
Fills it more fully than the water did ; 
Holds thrice the weight of water in itself 
Resolved into a subtler element. 
And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full 
Up to the visible height — and after, void; 
Not knowing air's more hidden properties. 
And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus 
To vindicate his purpose in our life : 
Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? 
Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, 
That he or other god descended here 
And, once for all, showed simultaneously 
What, in its nature, never can be shown 
Piecemeal or in succession : showed, I say. 
The worth both absolute and relative 
Of all his children from the birth of time, 
His instruments for all appointed work. 
I now go on to image — might we hear 
The judgment which should give the due to 

each. 
Show where the labor lay and where the ease, 
And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! 
This is a dream : — but no dream, let us hope. 



276 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

That years and days, the summers and the 

springs, 
Follow each other with unwaning powers. 
The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far 
Through culture, than the wild wealth of the 

rock ; 
The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; 
The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet ; 
The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn 

flowers : 
That young and tender crescent moon, thy 

slave, 
Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds, 
Refines upon the women of my youth. 
What, and the soul alone deteriorates? 
I have not changed verse like Homer, no — 
Nor swept string like Terpander, no — nor 

carved 
And painted men like Phidias and his friend: 
I am not great as they are, point by point. 
But I have entered into sympathy 
With these four, running these into one soul. 
Who, separate, ignored each other's arts. 
Say, is it nothing that I know them all? 
The wild flower was the larger; I have 

dashed 
Rose-blood from its petals, picked its cup's 
Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, 
And show a better flower if not so large : 
I stand myself. Refer this to the gods 
Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare 
(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext 
That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, 
Discourse of lightly or depreciate? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 277 

It might have fallen to another's hand: what 

^ then? 
I pass too surely : let at least truth stay ! 

And next, of what thou followest on to ask. 
This being with me, as I declare, O king, 
My works in all these varicolored kinds, 
So done by me, accepted so by men — 
Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) 
I must not be accounted to attain 
The very crown and proper end of life? 
Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, 
I face death with success in my right hand ; 
Whether I fear death less than dost thyself 
The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou) 
"Thou leaveth much behind, while I leave 

nought. 
"Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, 
"The pictures men shall study; while my life, 
*' Complete and whole now in its power and 

joy, 

"Dies altogether with my brain and arm, 
"Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? 
"The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, 
"Set on the promontory which I named. 
"And that — some supple courtier of my heir 
"Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps 
"To fix the robe to, which best drags it down, 
"I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" 

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole 
mind. 
Is this apparent when thou turn'st to muse 
Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, 



278 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

That admiration grows as knowledge grows? 
That imperfection means perfection hid, 
Reserved in part, to grace the after- time? 
If, in the morning of philosophy, 
Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, 
Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have 

looked 
On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, 
Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage — 
Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and 

deduced 
The perfectness of others yet unseen. 
Conceding which, — had Zeus then questioned 

thee 
** Shall I go on a step, improve on this, 
**Do more for visible creatures than is done?" 
Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making 

each 
**Grow conscious in himself — by that alone. 
*' All's perfect else; the shell sucks fast the 

rock, 
**The fish strikes through the sea, the snake 

both swims 
*'And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds 

take flight, 
*'Till life's mechanics can no further go — 
*'And all this joy in natural life, is put, 
**Like fire from off thy finger into each, 
*'So exquisitely perfect is the same. 
*'But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are: 
"It has them not they it; and so I choose 
"For man, thy last premeditated work, 
'*(If I might add a glory to the scheme) 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 279 

''That a third thing should stand apart from 

both, . 
*'A quality arise within his soul, 
"Which, intro-active, made to supervise 
"And feel the force it has, may view itself, 
"And so be happy. " Man might live at first 
The animal life; but is there nothing more? 
In due time, let him critically learn 
How he lives; and, the more he gets to know 
Of his own life's adaptabilities, 
The more joy-giving will his life become. 
Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. 

But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: 
"Let progress end at once — man make no step 
"Beyond the natural man, the better beast, 
"Using his senses, not the sense of sense!" 
In man there's failure, only since he left 
The lower and inconscious forms of life. 
We called it in advance, the rendering plain 
Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, 
And, by new lore so added to the old, 
Take each step higher over the brute's head. 
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house. 
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, 
Which whole surrounding flats of natural life 
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to ; 
A tower that crowns a country. But alas, 
The soul now climbs it just to perish there! 
For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream — > 
We know this, which we had not else perceived) 
That there's a world of capability 
For joy spread round about us, meant for us, 
Inviting us ; and still the soul craves all, 



280 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And still the flesh replies, ''Take no jot more 
"Than ere thou clombst the tower to look 

abroad ! 
"Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought 
"Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to en- 
large 
Our bounded physical recipiency. 
Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, 
Repair the waste of age and sickness; no, 
It skills not! life's inadequate to joy, 
As the soul seeks joy, tempting life to take. 
They praise a fountain in my garden here 
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow 
Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. 
W^hat if I told her, it is just a thread 
From that great river which the hills shut up. 
And mock her with my leave to take the same? 
The artificer has given her one sm^ll tube 
Past power to widen or exchange — what boots 
To know she might spout oceans if she could? 
She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: 
And so a man can use but a man's joy 
While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast 
"See, man, how happy I live, and despair — 
"That I may be still happier — for thy use!" 
If this were so, we could not thank our lord, 
As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so — 
Malice it is not. Is it carelessness? 
Still, no. If care — where is the sign? I ask, 
And get no answer, and agree in sum, 
O king, with thy profound discouragement, 
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. 
Most progress is most failure; thou sayest 
well. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 281 

The last point now. Thou dost accept a 

case — 
Holding joy not impossible to one 
With artist-gifts — to such a man as I 
Who leave behind me living works indeed; 
For, such a poem, such a painting lives. 
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word, 
Confound the accurate view of what joy is 
(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than 

thine) 
With feeling joy? confound the knowing how 
And showing how to live (my faculty) 
With actually living? — Otherwise 
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? 
Because in my great epos I display 
How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can 

act — 
Is this as though I acted? if I paint, 
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore 

young? 
Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself 
The many years of pain that taught me art ! 
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove 
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more : 
But, knowing nought, to enjoy is something 

too, 
Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, 
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 
I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. 
I get to sing of love, when grown too grey 
For being beloved: she turns to that young 

man, 
The muscles all a-ripple on his back. 



282 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art 

king! 
*'But," sayest thou — (and I marvel, I repeat, 
To find thee tripping on a mere word) "what 
"Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not 

die: 
"Sappho survives, because we sing 'her songs, 
"And ^schylus, because we read his plays!" 
Why, if they live still, let them come and take 
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup. 
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I sur- 
vive? 
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, 
In this, that every day my sense of joy 
Grows more acute, my soul (intensified 
By power and insight) more enlarged, more 

keen; 
While every day my hair falls more and more, 
My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—. 
The horror quickening still from year to year, 
The consummation coming past escape, 
"When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—. 
When all my works wherein I prove my worth, 
Being present still to mock me in men's 

mouths, 
Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou, 
I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, 
The man who loved his life so over-much, 
Shall sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, 
I dare at times imagine to my need 
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, 
Unlimited in capability 
For joy, as this is in desire for joy, 
— To seek which, the joy- hunger forces us: 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 283 

That, stung by straitness of our life, made 

strait 
On purpose to make prized the life at large — 
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, 
We burst there as the worm into the fly. 
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But 



no 



Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, 
He must have done so, were it possible ! 

Live long and happy, and in that thought 

die, 
Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the 

rest, 
I cannot tell thy messenger aright 
Where to deliver what he bears of thine 
To one called Paulus ; we have heard his fame 
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him — 
I know not, nor am troubled much to know. 
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew 
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, 
Hath access to a secret shut from us? 
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, 
In stooping to inquire of such an one, 
As if his answer could impose at all! 
He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. 
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves 
Who touched on this same isle, preached him 

and Christ; 
And (as I gathered from a bystander) 
Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. 



284 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

INSTANS TYRANNUS. 



Of the million or two, more or less, 
I rule and possess, 
One man, for some cause undefined, 
Was least to my mind. 



I struck him, he groveled of course — 

For, what was his force? 

I pinned him to earth with my weight 

And persistence of hate ; 

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, 

As his lot might be worse. 

Ill 

*'Were the object less mean, would he stand 

*'At the swing of my hand! 

"For obscurity helps him, and blots 

*'The hole where he squats." 

So, I set my five wits on the stretch 

To inveigle the wretch. 

All in vain ! Gold and jewels I threw, 

Still he couched there perdue; 

I tempted his blood and his flesh. 

Hid in roses my mesh, 

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: 

Still he kept to his filth. 

IV 

Had he kith now or kin, were access 

To his heart, did I press: 

Just a son or a mother to seize! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 285 

No such booty as these. 

Were it simply a friend to pursue 

'Mid my million or two, 

Who could pay me, in person or pelf, 

What he owes me himself! 

No; I could not but smile through my chafe: 

For the fellow lay safe 

As his mates do, the midge and the nit, 

— Through minuteness, to-wit. 



Then a humor more great took its place 

At the thought of his face: 

The droop, the low cares of the mouth, 

The trouble uncouth 

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain 

To put out of its pain. 

And "no!" I admonished myself, 

"Is one mocked by an elf, 

"Is one baffled by toad or by rat? 

"The gravamen's in that! 

"How the lion, who crouches to suit 

"His back to my foot, 

"Would admire that I stand in debate! 

"But the small turns the great 

*'If it vexes you, — that is the thing! 

"Toad or rat vex the king? 

*^ Though I waste half my realm to unearth 

*'Toad or rat, 't is well worth!" 

VI 

So, I soberly laid my last plan 

To extinguish the man. 

Round his creep-hole, with never a break 



286 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Ran my fires for his sake; 
Over-head, did my thunder combine 
With my under-ground mine : 
Till I looked from my labor content 
To enjoy the event. 

VII 

When sudden . . . how think ye, the end? 

Did I say "without friend?" 

Say rather, from marge to blue marge 

The whole sky grew his targe 

With the sun's self for visible boss, 

While an Arm ran across 

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast 

Where the wretch was safe prest! 

Do you see ! Just my vengeance complete. 

The man sprang to his feet. 

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! 

— So, I was afraid. 



AN EPISTLE. 

CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE 
OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. 

Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs. 
The not-incurious in God's handiwork 
(This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, 
Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste. 
To coop up and keep down on earth a space 
That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) 
— To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, 
Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, 
Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 287 

Befall the flesh through too much stress and 

strain, 
Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip 
Back and rejoin its source before the term,— 
And aptest in contrivance (under God) 
To baffle it by deftly stopping such: — 
The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home 
Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame 

with peace) 
Three samples of true snake-stone — rarer still. 
One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, 
(But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than 

drugs) 
And writeth now the twenty-second time. 
My journeyings were brought to Jerico: 
Thus I resume. Who studious in our art 
Shall count a little labor unrepaid? 
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone 
On many a flinty furlong of this land. 
Also, the country-side is all on fire 
With rumors of a marching hitherward : 
Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son. 
A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear: 
Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: 
I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. 
Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten 

me, 
And once a town declared me for a spy; 
But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, 
Since this poor covert where I pass the night, 
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence 
A man with plague-sores at the third degree 
Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest 

here! 



288 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, 
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 
And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. 
A viscid choler is observable 
In tertians, I was nearly bold to say; 
And falling-sickness hath a happier cure 
Than our school wots of: there's a spider here 
Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, 
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back ; 
Take five and drop them . . . but who knows 

his mind. 
The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to? 
His service payeth me a sublimate 
Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. 
Best wait : I reach Jerusalem at morn, 
There set in order my experiences. 
Gather what most deserves, and give thee all-;- 
Or I might add, Judsea's gum-tragacanfh 
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer- 
grained, 
Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, 
In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease 
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy : 
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at 

Zoar — 
But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. 
Yet stay! my Syrian blinketh gratefully, 
Protesteth his devotion is my price — 
Suppose I write what harms not, , though he 

steal? 
I have resolve to tell thee, ye.t I blush, 
What set me off a-writing first of all. 
An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! 
For, be it this town's barrenness — or else 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 289 

The Man had something in the look of him — 
His case has struck me far more than 'tis 

worth. 
So, pardon if — (lest presently I lose, 
In the great press of novelty at hand, 
The care and pains this somehow stole from 

me) 
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, 
Almost in sight — for, wilt thou have the truth? 
The very man is gone from me but now, 
Whose ailment is the subject of discourse, 
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! 

'Tis but a case of mania: subinduced 
By epilepsy, at the turning-point 
Of trance prolonged unduly some three days 
When, by the exhibition of some drug 
Or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art 
Unknown to me and which't were well to 

know. 
The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once, 
Left the man whole and sound of body in- 
deed, — 
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too 

wide, 
Making a clear house of it too suddenly, 
The first conceit that entered might inscribe 
Whatever it was minded on the wall 
So plainly at that vintage, as it were, 
(First come, first served) that nothing subse- 
quent 
Attaineth to erase those fancy- scrawls 
The just-returned and new-established soul 
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart 
That henceforth she will read or these or none. 

19 Browning 



290 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And first — the man's own firm conviction rests 
That he was dead (in fact they buried him) 
That he was dead and then restored to life 
By a Nazarene physician of his tribe : 
— 'Sayeth, the same bade *'Rise, " and he did 

rise. 
*'Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. 
Not so this figment! — not, that such a fume, 
Instead of giving way to time and health, 
Should eat itself into the life of life, 
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all! 
For see, how he takes up the after-life. 
The man— -it is one Lazarus a Jew, 
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, 
The body's habit wholly laudable, 
As much, indeed, beyond the common health 
As he were made and put aside to show. 
Think, could we penetrate by any drug 
And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, 
And bring it clear and fair, by three days' 

sleep! 
Whence has the man the balm that brightens 

all? 
This grown man eyes the world now like a 

child. 
Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, 
Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep. 
To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, 
Now sharply, now with sorrow, — told the 

case, — 
He listened not except I spoke to him, 
But folded his two hands and let them talk, 
Watching the flies that buzzed : and yet no fool. 
And that's a sample how his years must go. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 291 

Look if a he^gav, in fixed middle-life, 

Should find a treasure, — can he use the same 

With straitened habitude and tastes starved 

small. 
And take at once to his impoverished brain 
The sudden element that changes things, 
That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his 

hand, 
And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? 
Is he not such an one as moves to mirth — 
Warily parsimonious, when no need. 
Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? 
All prudent counsel as to what befits 
The golden mean, is lost on such an one : 
The man's fantastic will is the man's law 
So here — we call the treasure knowledge, say, 
Increased beyond the fleshly faculty — 
Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, 
Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing 

heaven : 
The man is witless of the size, the sum, 
The value in proportion of all things. 
Or whether it be little or be much 
Discourse to him of prodigious armaments 
Assembled to besiege his city now. 
And of the passing of a mule with gourds — 
*Tis one! Then take it on the other side, 
Speak of some trifling fact, — he will gaze rapt 
With stupor at its very littleness, 
(Far as I see) as if in that indeed 
He caught prodigious imports, whole results; 
And so will turn to us the bystanders 
In ever the same stupor (note this point) 
That we too see not with his opened eyes. 



292 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, 

Preposterously, at cross purposes. 

Should his child sicken unto death, — why, look 

For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, 

Or pretermission of the daily craft! 

While a word, gesture, glance from that same 

child 
At play or in the school or laid asleep. 
Will startle him to an agony of fear. 
Exasperation, just as like. Demand 
The reason why — "'tis but a word," object — 
"A gesture" — he regards thee as our lord 
Who lived there in the pyramid alone. 
Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being 

young, 
We both would unadvisedly recite 
Some charm's beginning, from that book of 

his, 
Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst 
All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. 
Thou and the child have each a veil alike 
Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ve 

both 
Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a 

match 
Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know ! 
He holds on firmly to some thread of life — 
(It is the life to lead perforcedly) 
Which runs across some vast distracting orb 
Of glory on either side that meagre thread, 
Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet — 
The spiritual life around the earthly life : 
The law of that is known to him as this, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 293 

His heart and brain move there, his feet stay 

here. 
So is the man perplext with impulses 
Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, 
Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, 
And not along, this black thread through the 

blaze — 
'*It should be" baulked by "here it cannot be." 
And oft the man's soul springs into his face 
As if he saw again and heard again 
His sage that bade him "Rise" and he did rise. 
Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within 
Admonishes: then back he sinks at once 
To ashes, who was very fire before. 
In sedulous recurrence to his trade 
Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; 
And studiously the humbler for that pride. 
Professedly the faultier that he knows 
God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. 
Indeed the especial marking of the man 
Is prone submission to the heavenly will — 
Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 
'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last 
For that same death which must restore his 

being 
To equilibrium, body loosening soul 
Divorced even now by premature full growth 
He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live 
So long as God please, and just how God 

please. 
He even seeketh not to please God more 
(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God 

please. 
Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach 



294 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, 
Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: 
How can he give his neighbor the real ground, 
His own conviction? Ardent as he is — 
Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 
"Be it as God please" reassureth him. 
I probed the sore as thy disciple should: 
"How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness 
"Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march 
"To stamp out like a little spark thy town, 
"Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" 
He merely looked with his large eyes on me. 
The man is apathetic, you deduce? 
Contrariwise, he loves both old and young. 
Able and weak, affects the very brutes 
And birds — how say I? flowers of the field — 
As a wise workman recognizes tools 
In a master's workshop, loving what they 

make. 
Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: 
Only impatient, let him do his best, 
At ignorance and carelessness and sin — 
An indignation which is promptly curbed : 
As when in certain travel I have feigned 
To be an ignoramus in our art 
According to some preconceived design, 
And happened to hear the land's practitioners 
Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 
Prattle fantastically on disease. 
Its cause and cure— and I must hold my peace ! 
Thou wilt object — Why have I not ere this 
Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene 
Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, 
Conferring with the frankness that befits? 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 295 

Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech 
Perished in a tumult many years ago, 
Accused, — our learning's fate, — of wizardry. 
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 
And creed prodigious as described to me, 
His death, which happened when the earth- 
quake fell 
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss 
To occult learning in our lord the sage 
Who lived there in the pyramid alone) 
Was wrought by the mad people — that's their 

wont! 
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it. 
To his tried virtue, for miraculous help — 
How could he stop the earthquake? That's 

their way ! 
The other imputations must be lies : 
But take one, though I loath to give it thee, 
In mere respect for any good man's fame. 
(And after all, our patient Lazarus 
Is stark mad; should we count on what he 

says? 
Perhaps not; though in writing to a leach 
'Tis well to keep nothing back of a case.) 
This man so cured regards the curer, then, 
As — God forgive me ! who but God himself, 
Creator and sustainer of the world, 
That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile, 
— Sayeth that such an one was born and lived. 
Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his 

own house, 
Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, 
And yet was . . . what I said nor choose re- 
peat, 



296 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

And must have so avouched himself, in fact, 
In hearing of this very Lazarus 
Who saith — but why all this of what he saith? 
"Why write of trivial matters, things of price 
Calling at every moment for remark? 
I noticed on the margin of a pool 
Blue-flowrering borage, the Aleppo sort, 
Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange! 

Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, 
Which, now that I review it, needs must seem 
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth ! 
Nor I myself discern in what is writ 
Good cause for the peculiar interest 
And awe indeed this man has touched me with. 
Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness 
Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: 
I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills 
Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came 
A moon made like a face with certain spots 
Multiform, manifold and menacing: 
Then a wind rose behind me. So we met 
In this old sleepy town at unawares, 
The man and I. I send thee what is writ. 
Regard it as a chance, a, matter risked 
To this ambiguous Syrian ; he may lose. 
Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 
Jerusalem's repose shall make amends 
For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine ; 
Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! 

The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? 
So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too — 
So, through the thunder comes a human voice 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 297 

Saying, *'0 heart I made, a heart beats here! 
"Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! 
*'Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of 

mine: 
'*But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 
"And thou must love me who have died for 

thee!" 
The madman saith He said so ; it is strange. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; 

OR, 

NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND. 

"Thou though test that I was altogether such a one as 
thyself." 

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, 
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire. 
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his 

chin. 
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush. 
And feels about his spine small eft-things 

course. 
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh ; 
And while above his head a pompion -plant. 
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye. 
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard. 
And now a flower drops with a bee inside, 
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch, — 
He looks oiit o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross 
And recross till they weave a spider-web, 
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) 
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, 

20 Browning 



298 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Touching that other, whom his dam called 

God. 
Because to talk about Him, vexes — ha, 
Could He but know ! and time to vex is now, 
When talk is safer than in winter-time. 
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 
In confidence he drudges at their task. 
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe. 
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] 

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 
'Thinketh He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 
'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, 
But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; 
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as 

that: 
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, 
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 
'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease : 
He hated that He cannot change His cold, 
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish 
That longed to 'scape the rock- stream where 

she lived. 
And thaw herself v/ithin the lukewarm brine 
O' the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far amid, 
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave ; 
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse 
At the other kind of water, not her life, 
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o* the 

sun) 
Flounced back from bliss she was not born to 

breathe, 
And in her old bounds buried her despair, 
Hating and loving warmth alike : so He. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 299 

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this 
isle, 
Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping 

thing. 
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech ; 
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam. 
That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown, 
He hath watched hunt with that slant white- 
wedge eye 
By moonlight; and the pie with the long 

tongue 
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, 
And says a plain "word when she finds her 

prize, 
But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves 
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks 
About their hole — He made all these and more, 
Made all we see, and us, in spite; how else? 
He himself could not make a second self 
To be His mate: as well have made Himself: 
He would not make what He mislikes or slights. 
An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains ; 
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, 
Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, 

•be— 
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, 
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, 
Things He admires and mocks too, — that is it! 
Because, so brave, so better though they be, 
It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 
Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, 
Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived. 
Which bite like finches when they bill and 
kiss, — 



300 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all 
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through 

my brain ; 
Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, 
And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 
Put case, unable to be what I wish, 
I yet could make a live bird out of clay; 
Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban 
Able to fly? — for, there, see, he hath wings. 
And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, 
And there, a sting to do his foes offence, 
There, and I will that he begin to live. 
Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns 
Of grigs high up that make the merry din, 
Saucy through their veined wings, and mind 

me not. 
In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay. 
And he lay stupid-like — why, I should laugh ; 
And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, 
Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, 
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, — 
Well, as the chance were, this might take or 

else 
Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, 
And give the manikin three legs for one. 
Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, 
And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. 
Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme. 
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive. 
Making and marring clay at will? So He. 

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong 
in Him, 
Nor kind, nor cruel : He is strong and Lord. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 301 

'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 
That march now from the mountain to the 

sea; 
'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty- first, 
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 
'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots 
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 
'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, 
And two worms he whose nippers end in red: 
As it likes me each time, thus I do: So He. 
Well, then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, 
Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, 
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure ! 
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Him- 
self, 
And envieth that so helped, such things do 

more 
Than He who made them ! What consoles but 

this? 
That they, unless through Him, do nought at 

all, 
And must submit : what other use in things? 
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint 
That, blown through, gives exact the scream 

o' the jay 
When from her wing you twitch the feathers 

blue: 
Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 
Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is 

hurt: 
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast for- 
sooth 
*'I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, 
**I make the cry my maker cannot make 



3C2 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"With his great round mouth; he must blow 

through mine ! ' ' 
Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. 

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at 
ease? 
Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for that, 
What knows, — the something over Setebos 
That made Him, or He, may be, found and 

fought, 
Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, per- 
chance 
There may be something quiet o'er His head, 
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, 
Since both derive from weakness in some way, 
I joy because the quails come; would not joy 
Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: 
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch. 
But never spends much thought nor care that 

way. 
It may look up, work up, — the worse for those 
It works on! ' Care th but for Setebos 
The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, 
Who, making Himself feared through what He 

does. 
Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar 
To what is quiet and hath happy life ; 
Next looks down here, and out of very spite 
Makes this a bauble- world to ape yon real. 
These good things to match those, as hips do 

grape,— 
'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. 
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 303 

Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle : 
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow- 
shaped, 
Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious 

words ; 
Has peeled a wand and called it by a name ; 
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe 
The eyed skin of a supple ocelot; 
And hath an ounce cleeker than youngling 

mole, 
A four-legged serpent he makes cower and 

couch, 
Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his 

eye. 
And saith she is Miranda and my wife. 
'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane 
He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge ; 
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared. 
Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat 

tame, 
And split its toe-webs, and now pens the 

drudge 
In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban; 
A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 
'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, 
Taketh his mirth with make-believes; so He. 

His dam held that the Quiet made all things 
Which Setebos vexed only; 'holds not so. 
Who made them weak, meant weakness He 

might vex. 
Had he meant other, while His hand was in, 
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick,, 
Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, 



304 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, 
Like an ore's armor? Ay, — so spoil His sport? 
He is the One now; only He doth all. 

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits 

Him. 
Ay, himself loves what does him good; but 

why? 
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast 
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose. 
But, had he eyes, would want no help, would 

hate 
Or love, just as it liked him : He hath eyes. 
Also it pleaseth Setebos to work. 
Use all His hands and exercise much craft. 
By no means for the love of what is worked, 
'Tasteth, himself no finer good i' the world 
When all goes right, in this safe summer-time. 
And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, 
Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 
Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of 

turfs. 
And squared and stuck there squares of soft 

white chalk, 
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on 

each. 
And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, 
And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull 

a-top, 
Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to 

kill. 
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 
'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. 
•Saith He is terrible : watch His feats in proof! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 305 

One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. 
He hath a spite against me, that I know. 
Just as He favors Prosper, who knows why? 
So it is, all the same, as well I find. 
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them 

firm 
With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises 
Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one 

wave. 
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, 
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large 

tongue, 
And licked the whole labor flat : so much for 

spite ! 
'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) 
Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: 
Often they scatter sparkles : there is force ! 
'Dug up a newt He may have envied once 
And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. 
Please Him and hinder this?— -What Prosper 

does? 
Aha, if he would tell me how. Not He ! 
There is the sport: discover how or die! 
All need not die, for of the things o' the isle 
Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; 
Those at His mercy,— why, they please Hkn 

most 
When . . . when . . . well, never try the 

same way twice! 
Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow 

wroth. 
You must not know His ways, and play Him 

off. 
Sure oft the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 



306 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears 

But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, 

And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 

*Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, 

Curls up into a ball, pretending death 

For fright at my approach: the two ways 

please. 
But what would move my choler more than 

this — 
That either creature counted on its life 
To-morrow, next day and all days to come. 
Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart, 
"Because he did so yesterday with me, 
•'And otherwise with such another brute, 
**So must he do henceforth and always." — Ay? 
'Would teach the reasoning couple what ' 'must" 

means! 
'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, 
And we shall have to live in fear of Him 
So long as He lives, keeps His strength : no 

change, 
If He have done His best, make no new world 
To please Him more, so leave off watching 

this, — 
If He surprise not even the Quiet's self 
Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow into it 
As gnibs grow butterflies: else, here are we, 
And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 

'Believeth with the life the pain shall stop. 
His dam held different, held that after death 
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: 



1 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 307 

Idly ! He doth His worst in this our life, 
Giving just respite lest we die through pain, 
Saving last pain for worst — with which, an end, 
Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire 
Is, not to seem too happy. Sees, himself, 
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, 
Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 
On head and tail as if to save their lives: 
'Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. 

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, sup- 
pose 
This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, 
And always, above all else, envies Him : 
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights. 
Moans in the sun, get under holes to laugh, 
And never speaks his mind save housed as 

now: 
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me 

here, 
O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chuck- 

lest at?" 
'Would to appease Him, cut a finger off, 
Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, 
Or let the toothsome apple rot on tree. 
Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste: 
While myself lit a fire, and made a song 
And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate 
"To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate 
*'For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?" 
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, 
Warts rub away and sores are cured with 
slime. 



308 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

That some strange day, will either the Quiet 

catch 
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He 
Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. 



[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once ! 
Crickets stop hissing; not a bird — or, yes. 
There scuds His raven that hath told Him all ! 
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The 

wind 
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' 

the move. 
And fast invading fires begin ! White blaze — 
A tree's head snaps — and there, there, there, 

there, there 
His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him! 
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 
*Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip. 
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month 
One little mess of whelks, so he may scape!] 



SAUL. 



Said Abner, '*At last thou art come! Ere I 

till, ere thou speak, 
*'Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I 

wished it, and did kiss his cheek. 
And he, "Since the King, O my friend, for thy 

countenance sent, 
*' Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor 

until from his tent 



BROWNING'S POEMS. ^09 

*'Thou return with the joyful assurance the 

King liveth yet. 
*' Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with 

the water be wet. 
*'For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a 

space of three days, 
*'Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of 

prayer nor of praise, 
*'To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have 

ended their strife, 
*'And that, faint in his triumph the monarch 

sinks back upon life. 



*'Yet, now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's 

child with his dew 
*'On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies 

still living and blue 
*'Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, 

as if no wild heat 
*'Were now raging to torture the desert!" 

Ill 

Then I, as was meet, 
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose 

on my feet, 
And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The 

tent was unlooped ; 
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and 

under I stooped; 
Hands and knees on the slippery grass patch, 

all withered and gone, 
That extends to the second inclosure, I groped 

my way on 



310 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then 

once more I prayed, 
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and 

was not afraid 
But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" 

And no voice replied. 
At the first I saw nought but the blackness: 

but soon I descried 
A something more black than the blackness — 

the vast, the upright 
Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and 

slow into sight 
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest 

of all. 
Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent- 
roof, showed Saul. 

IV 

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms 
stretched out wide 

On the great cross-support in the center, that 
goes to each side ; 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, 
caught in his pangs 

And waiting his change, the king serpent all 
heavily hangs. 

Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliv- 
erance come 

With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear 
and stark, blind and dumb. 



Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we 
twine round its chords 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 311 

Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon- 
tide — those sunbeams like swords! 

And I first played the tune all our sheep know, 
as, one after one, 

So docile they come to the pen-door till folding 
be done. 

They are white and untorn by the bushes, for 
lo, they have fed 

Where the long- grasses stifle the water within 
the stream's bed; 

And now one after one seeks its lodging, as 
star follows star 

Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue 
and so far! 

VI 

— Then the tune, for which quails on the corn- 
land will each leave his mate 

To fly after the player; then, what makes the 
crickets elate 

Till for boldness they fight one another; and 
then, what has weight 

To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his 
sand house — 

There are none such as he for a wonder, half 
bird and half mouse ! 

God made all the creatures and gave them our 
love and our fear, 

To give sign, we and they are his children, one 
family here. 

VII 

Then I played the help-tune of our reaper^ 
their wine-song, when hand 



312 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Grasps at hand, eye lights in good friendship, 
and great hearts expand 

And grow one in the sense of this world's life, 
— And then, the last song 

When the dead man is praised on his journey 
— "Bear, bear him along 

"With his few faults shut up like dead flower- 
ets ! Are balm-seeds not here 

"To console us? The land has none left such 
as he on the bier. 

"Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!" 
— And then, the glad chaunt 

Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, 
next, she whom we vaunt 

As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And 
then, the great march 

Wherein man runs to man to assist him and 
buttress an arch 

Nought can break ; who shall harm them, our 
friends? — Then, the chorus intoned 

As the Levites go up to the altar in glory en- 
throned. 

But I stopped here : for here in the darkness 
Saul groaned. 

vm 

And I paused, held my breath in such silence, 
and listened apart; 

And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shud- 
dered: and sparkles 'gan dart 

From the jewels that woke in his turban, at 
once with a start 

All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies cour- 
ageous at heart. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 313 

So the head: but the body still moved not, still 

hung there erect. 
And I bent once again to my playing, pursued 

it unchecked, 
As I sang, — 

IX 

*'Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! 
No spirit feels waste, 

*'Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor 
sinew unbraced. 

"Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from 
rock up to rock, 

"The strong rending of boughs from the fir- 
tree, the cool silver shock 

"Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the 
hunt of the bear, 

"And the sultriness showing the lion is couched 
in his lair. 

"And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over 
with gold dust divine 

"And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, 
the full draught of wine, 

"And the sleep in the dried river- channel 
where bulrushes tell 

"That the water was wont to go warbling so 
softly and well. 

"How good is man's life, the mere living ! how 
fit to employ 

"All the heart and the soul and the senses for- 
ever in joy! 

"Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, 
whose sword thou didst guard 



1 



314 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"When he trusted thee forth with the armies, 

for glorious reward? 
*' Didst thou kiss the thin hands of thy mother, 

held up as men sung 
*'The low song of the nearly departed, and 

hear her faint tongue 
"Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let 

one more attest, 
*' 'I have lived, seen God's hand thro' a life- 
time, and all was for best!' 
"Then they sung thro' their tears in strong 

triumph, not much, but the rest. 
"And thy brothers, the help and the contest, 

the working whence grew 
"Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, 

the spirit strained true : 
"And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood 

of wonder and hope, 
"Present promise and wealth of the future 

beyond the eye's scope, — 
**Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a peo- 
ple is thine : 
"And all gifts, which the world offers singly, 

on one head combine ! 
"On one head, all the beauty and strength, 

love and rage (like the throe 
"That, a- work in the rock, helps its labor and 

lets the gold go) 
"High ambition and deeds which surpass it, 

fame crowning them, — all 
** Brought to blaze on the head of one creature 

—King Saul!" 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 315 



And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, 

hand, harp and voice, 
Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each 

bidding rejoice 
Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as 

when, dare I say, 
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains 

through its array. 
And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — "Saul!" 

cried I, and stopped. 
And waited the thing that should follow. Then 

Saul, who hung propped 
By the tent's cross-support in the center, was 

struck by his name. 
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons 

goes right to the aim, 
And some mountain, the last to withstand her, 

that held (he alone, 
While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) 

on a broad bust of stone 
A year's snow bound about for a breast-plate, 

— leaves grasp of the sheet? 
Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously 

down to his feet. 
And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive 

yet, your mountain of old. 
With his rents, the successive bequeathings of 

ages untold : 
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, 

each furrow and scar 
Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest 

— all hail, there they are! 



316 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

— Now again to be softened with verdure, 

again hold the nest 
Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to 

the green on his crest 
For their food in the ardors of summer. One 

long shudder thrilled 
All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank 

and was stilled 
At the King's self left standing before me, re- 
leased and aware. 
What was gone, what remained? All to trav- 
erse 'twixt hope and despair. 
Death was past, life not come : so he waited. 

Awhile his right hand 
Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, 

forthwith to remand 
To their place what new objects should enter: 

'twas Saul as before. 
I looked up, dared gaze at those eyes, nor was 

hurt any more 
Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye 

watch from the shore 
At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's 

slow decline 
Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, 

o'erlap and entwine 
Base with base to knit strength more intensely: 

so, arm folded arm 
O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 

XI 

What spell or what charm, 
(For, awhile there was trouble within me) 
what next should I urge 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 317 

To sustain him where song had restored him? 

Song filled to the verge 
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all 

that it yields 
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : 

beyond, on what fields, 
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to 

brighten the eye. 
Bring blood to the lip, and commend them the 

cup they put by? 
He saith, *'It is good;" still he drinks not: he 

lets me praise life, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 

XII 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pasture, 

when round me the sheep 
Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled 

slow as in sleep: 
And I lay in my hollow and mused on the 

world that might he 
•Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 

'twixt the hill and the sky. 
And I laughed — "Since my days are ordained 

to be passed with my flocks, 
*'Let me people at least, with my fancies, the 

plains and the rocks, 
*' Dream the life I am never to mix with, and 

image the show 
*'Of mankind as they live in those fashions I 

hardly shall know — 
"Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, 

the courage that gains, 



318 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

*'And the prudence that keeps what men strive 
for!" And now these old trains 

Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; 
so, once more the string 

Of mj' harp made response to my spirit, as 
thus — 

XIII 

*'Yea, my King," 

I began — "thou dost well in rejecting mere 
comforts that spring 

*'From the mere mortal life held in common 
by man and by brute : 

*'In our flesh grows the branch of this life in 
our soul it bears fruit. 

*'Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, 
— how its stem trembled first 

*'Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; 
then safely outburst 

*' The fan-branches all round; and thou mind- 
est when these, too, in turn 

** Broke a- bloom and the palm-tree seemed per- 
fect: yet more was to learn, 

*'E'en the good that comes in with the palm- 
fruit. Our dates shall we slight, 

"When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? 
or care for the plight 

**0f the palm's self whose slow growth pro- 
duced them? Not so! stem and branch 

** Shall decay, nor be known in their place, 
while the palm-wine shall staunch 

*' Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I 
pour thee such wine. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 319 

*' Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the 

spirit be thine! 
''By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, 

thon still shalt enjoy 
*'More, indeed, than at first when, unconscious, 

the life of a boy. 
** Crush that life, and behold its wine running! 

Each deed thou hast done 
*'Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; 

until e'en as the sun 
''Looking down on the earth, though clouds 

spoil him, though tempests efface, 
"Can find nothing his own deed produced not, 

must everywhere trace 
"The results of his past summer-prime, — so, 

each ray of thy will, 
"Every flash of thy passion and prowers, long 

over, shall thrill 
"Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, 

till they, too, give forth 
"A like cheer to their sons: who in turn, fill 

the South and the North 
"With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. 

Carouse in the past! 
"But the license of age has its limit; thou diest 

at last. 
"As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the 

rose at her height, 
"So with man — so his power and his beauty 

forever take flight. 
"No! Again a long draught of my soul- wine J 

Look forth o'er the years! 
"Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; 

begin with the seer's! 



320 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

**Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make 

his tomb — bid arise 
*'A grey mountain of marble heaped four- 
square, till, built to the skies, 
*'Let it mark where the great First King slum- 
bers: whose fame would ye know? 
"Up above see the rock's naked face, where 

the record shall go 
"In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such 

was Saul, so he did ; 
"With the sages directing the work, by the 

populace chid, — 
"For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised 

there ! Which fault to amend, 
"In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, 

whereon they shall spend 
"(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their 

praise, and record 
"With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — 

the statesman's great word 
"Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. 

The river's a- wave 
"With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other 

when prophet- winds rave: 
"So the pen gives unborn generations their 

due and their part 
"In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, 

thank God that thou art!" 

XIV 

And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who 

didst grant me, that day, 
And, before it, not seldom has granted thy 

help to essay, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 321 

Carry on and complete an adventure, — my 

shield and my sword 
In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy 

word was my word, — 
Still help me, who then at the summit of hu- 
man endeavor 
And scaling the highest, man's thought could, 

gazed hopeless as ever 
On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, 

mighty to save. 
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance 

— God's throne from man's grave! 
Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my 

voice to my heart 
Which scarce dares believe in what marvels 

last night I took part. 
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone 

with my sheep ! 
And fear lest the terrible glory evanish like 

sleep. 
For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while 

Hebron upheaves 
Dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, 

and Kidron retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 

XV 

I say, then, — my song 
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, 

ever more strong. 
Made a proffer of good to console him — he 

slowly resumed. 
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The 

right hand replumed 

21 Browning 



322 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

His black locks to their wonted composure, ad- 
justed the swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that 

his countenance bathes. 
He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now 

his loins as of 5^ore, 
And feels slow for the armlets of price, with 

the clasp set before. 
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error 

had bent 
The broad brow from the daily communion; 

and still, though much spent 
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the 

same, God did choose, 
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, 

never quite lose. 
So sank he along by the tent-prop, still, stayed 

by the pile 
Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he 

leaned there awhile, 
And sat out my singing, — one arm round the 

tent-prop, to raise 
His bent head, and the other hung slack — till I 

touched on the praise 
I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man 

patient there 
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. 

Then first I was 'ware 
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above 

his vast knees 
Which were thrust out on each side around me, 

like oak roots which please 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked 

up to know 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 323 

If the best I could do had brought solace: he 

spoke not, but slow 
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid 

it with care 
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my 

brow: thro' my hair 
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent 

back my head, with kind power — 
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men 

do a flower 
Thus held he me there with his great eyes that 

scrutinized mine — 
And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but 

where was the sign? 
1 yearned — ''Could I help thee, my father, in- 
venting a bliss, 
"I would add, to that life of the past, both the 

future and this; 
''I would give thee new life altogether, as 

good, ages hence, 
**As this moment, — had love but the warrent, 

love's hear to dispense!" 

XVI 

Then the truth came upon me. No harp more 
— no song more! outbroke — 

XVII 

"I have gone the whole round of creation . I 

saw and I spoke ; 
"I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, 

received in my brain 
*'And pronounced on the rest of his handwork 

— returned him again 



324 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

**His creation's approval or censure: I spoke 

as I saw, 
^'Reported, as man may of God's work — all's 

love, yet all's law. 
*'Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. 

Each faculty tasked 
*'To perceive him has gained an abyss, where 

a dewdrop was asked. 
*'Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at 

Wisdom laid bare. 
**Have I forethought? how purblind, how 

blank, to the Infinite Care! 
*'Do I task any faculty highest, to image suc- 
cess? 
*'I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more 

and no less, 
*'In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and 

God is seen God 
*'In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the 

soul and the clod. 
*'And thus looking within and around me, I 

ever renew 
**(With that stoop of the soul which in bending 

upraises it, too), 
*'The submission of man's nothing-perfect to 

God's all-complete, 
*'As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to 

his feet. 
*'Yet with all this abounding experience, this 

deity known, 
**I shall dare to discover some province, some 

gift of my own. 
**There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard 

to hoodwink. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 325 

"I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh 

as I think), 
"Lest, insisting- to claim and parade in it, wot 

ye, I worst 
''E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could 

love if I durst ! 
''But I sink the pretension as fearing a man 

may o'ertake 
"God's own speed in the one way of love: I 

abstain for love's sake. 
— "What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? 

when doors great and small, 
"Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should 

the hundredth appal? 
"In the least things have faith, yet distrust in 

the greatest of all? 
"Do I find love so full in my nature, God's 

ultimate gift, 
"That I doubt his own love can compete with 

it? Here the parts shift? 
"Here, the creature surpass the creator, — the 

end, what began? 
"Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all 

for this man, 
"And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, 

who yet alone can? 
"Would it ever have entered my mind, the 

bare will, much less power, 
"To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the 

marvelous dower 
*'Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to 

make such a soul, 
"Such a body, and then such an earth for in- 
sphering the whole? 

22 Browning 



326 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

*'And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm 
tears attest), 

*' These good things being given, to go on, and 
give one more, the best? 

*'Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, 
maintain at the height 

*'This perfection, — succeed, with life's day- 
spring, death's minute of night: 

*' Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, 
the mistake, 

*'Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, — 
and bid him awake 

**From the dream, the probation, the prelude, 
to find himself set 

** Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a 
new harmony yet 

**To be run and continued, and ended — who 
knows? — or endure! 

**The man taught enough by life's dream, of 
the rest to make sure ; 

**By the pain- throb, triumphantly winning in- 
tensified bliss, 

*'And the next world's reward and repose, by 
the struggles in this. 

XVIII 

**I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I 

who receive : 
**In the first is the last, in thy will is my 

power to believe. 
** All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, 

as prompt to my prayer, 
**As I breathe out as this breath, as I open 

these arms to the air. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 327 

"From thy will, stream the worlds, life and 

nature, thy dread Sabaoth: 
"I will? — the mere atoms despise me! Why 

am I not loth 
"To look that, even that in the face, too? Why 

is it I dare 
"Think but lightly of such impuissance? What 

stops my despair? 
"This; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts 

him, but what man Would do! 
"See the Kinor — I would help him, but cannot, 

the wishes fall through. 
"Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, 

grow poor to enrich, 
"To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would 

— knowing which, 
"I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak 

through me now! 
"Would I suffer for him that I love? So 

wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 
"So shall crown thee the topmost, ineff ablest, 

uttermost crown — 
"And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave 

up nor down 
"One spot for the creature to stand in! It is 

by no breath, 
"Turn^ of eye, wave of hand, that salvation 

joins issue with death! 
"As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty 

be proved 
"Thy power, that exists with and for it, of 

being beloved! 
"He who did most, shall bear m.ost: the 

strongest shall stand the m^ost weak. 



328 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

" 'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! 

my flesh, that I seek 
"In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O 

Saul, it shall be 
"A Face like my face that receives thee; a 

Man like to me, 
*'Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever; a 

Hand like this hand 
"Shall throw open the gates of new life to 

thee! See the Christ stand!" 

XIX 

I know not too well how I found my way home 

in the night. 
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to 

left and to right, 
Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the 

alive, the aware : 
I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as 

strugglingly there, 
As a runner beset by the populace famished 

for news — 
Life or death. The whole earth was awak- 
ened, hell loosed with her crews; 
And the stars of night beat with emotion, and 

tingled and shot 
Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: 

but I fainted not. 
For the Hand still impelled me at once and 

supported, suppressed 
All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, 

and holy behest. 
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the 

earth sank to rest. 



BROWNINCz'S POEMS. 329 

Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had with- 
ered from earth — 
Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's 

tender birth; 
In the gathered intensity brought to the grey 

of the hills; 
In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the 

sudden wind-thrills; 
In the startled wild beasts that bore oft, each 

with eye sidling still, 
Though averted with wonder and dread; in 

the birds stiff and chill 
That rose heavily as I approached them, made 

stupid with awe: 
E'en the serpent that slid away silent — he felt 

the new law. 
The same stared in the white humid faces 

upturned by the flowers; 
The same worked in the heart of the cedar and 

moved the vine-bowers: 
And the little brooks witnessing murmured, 

persistent and low. 
With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — 

"E'en so, it is so!" 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 
I 

Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first was made 

Our times are in His hand 

Who saith *'A whole I -olanned, 



330 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

"Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor 
be afraid!" 



Not that, amassing- flowers, 
Youth sighed "Which rose makes ours, 
"Which lily leave and then as best recall!" 
Not that, admiring stars, 
It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
"Mine be some figured flame which blends, 
transcends them all!" 

Ill 

Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 
Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without. 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a 
spark. 

IV 

Poor vault of life indeed, 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the 
maw-crammed beast? 



Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 

And not partake, effect and not receive ! 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 331 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 
Nearer we hold of God 

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must 
believe. 

VI 

Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never 
grudge the throe ! 



VII 

For thence — a paradox 
Which comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 
What I aspired to be, 
And was not, comforts me : 
A brute, I might have been, but would not sink 
i' the scale. 

VIII 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want 

play? 
To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best. 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone 
way? 



332 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



IX 

Yet gifts should prove their use : 
I own the Past profuse 
Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole ; 
Should not the heart beat once "How good to 
live and learn?" 

X 

Not once beat "Praise be Thine! 
"I see the whole design, 

"I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: 
"Perfect I call Thy plan: 
"Thanks that I was a man! 
"Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou 
shalt do!" 

XI 

For pleasant is this flesh; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: 
Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did 
best! 

XII 

Let us not always say 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 

"I strove, made head, gained ground upon the 

whole ! ' ' 
As the bird wings and sings. 
Let us cry "All good things 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 333 

"Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than 
flesh helps soul!" 

XIII 

Therefore I summon age 
To grant youth's heritage, 
Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 
Thence shall I pass, approved 
A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute; a God though in 
the germ. 

XIV 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next, 

What weapons to select, what armor to indue. 

XV 

Youth ended, I shall try 
My gain or loss thereby ; 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: 
And I shall weigh the same. 
Give life its praise or blame: 
Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being 
old. 

XVI 

For, note when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 

The deed off, calls the glory from the grey: 

A whisper from the west 



334 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

Shoots — *'Add this to the rest, 
*'Take it and try its worth: here dies another 
day. ' ' 

XVII 

So, still within this life, 
Though lifted o'er its strife, 
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 
*'This rage was right i' the main, 
*'That acquiescence vain: 
*'The Future I may face now I have proved 
the Past" 

XVIII 

For more is not reserved 
To man, with soul just nerved 
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 
Here, work enough to watch 
The Master work, and catch 
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's 
true play. 

XIX 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found 

made: 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor 

be afraid! 

XX 

Enough now, if the Right 
And Good and Infinite 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 335 

Be named here, as thou call'st thy hand thine 

own, 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee 

feel alone. 

XXI 

Be there, for once and all, 
Severed great minds from small. 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 
Was I, the world arraigned, 
Were they, my soul disdained, 
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us 
peace at last! 

XXII 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 
Ten men love what I hate, 
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 
Ten, who in ears and eyes 
Match me : we all surmise. 
They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my 
soul believe? 

XXIII 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called *'work, " must sentence pass. 

Things done, that took the eye and had the 

price ; 
O'er which, from level stand, 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could value in 

a trice: 



336 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

XXIV 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb, 
So passed in making up the main account: 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure, 

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the 
man's amount: 

XXV 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act, 

Fancies that broke through language and 

escaped: 
All I could never be, 
All, men ignored in me, 
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the 

pitcher shaped. 

XXVI 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our 

clay,— 
Thou, to whom fools propound, 
When the wine makes its round, 
*' Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, 

seize to-day!" 

XXVII 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 
Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand 
sure: 



I 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 337 

What entered into thee, 
That was, is, and shall be: 

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and 
clay endure. 

XXVIII 

He fixed thee 'mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

'*This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain 
arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 

Try thee, and turn thee forth, sufficiently im- 
pressed. 

XXIX 

What though the earlier grooves 
Which ran the laughing loves 
Around thy base, no longer pause and press? 
What though, about thy rim. 
Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner 
stress? 

XXX 

Look not thou down but up ! 

To uses of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's 

peal. 
The new wine's foaming flow. 
The master's lips a-glow! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst 
thou with earth's wheel? 



338 BROWNLNG'S POEMS. 



XXXI 



But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men. 

And since, not even while the world was 

worst. 
Did I, — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife, 
Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake Thy 

thirst: 

XXXII 

So, take and use Thy work. 

Amend what flaws may lurk. 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past 

the aim! 
My tim.es be in Thy hand! 
Perfect the cup as planned! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete 

the same! 

EPILOGUE. 
First speaker, as David. 



On the first of the Feast of Feasts, 

The Dedication Day, 
When the Levites joined the Priests 

At the Altar in robed array, 
Gave signal to sound and say, — 

II 

When the thousands, rear and van, 
Swarming with one accord, 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 339 

Became as a single man, 

(Look, gesture, thought and word, 
In praising and thanking the Lord, — 

III 

When the singers lift up their voice, 
And the trumpets made endeavor, 

Sounding, "In God Rejoice!" 
Saying, "In Him rejoice 

"Whose mercy endureth for ever!" 

IV 

Then the Temple filled with a cloud, 

Even the House of the Lord : 
Porch bent and pillar bowed : 

For the presence of the Lord, 
In the glory of His cloud. 

Had filled the House of the Lord. 

Second Speaker, as Renan. 

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far, 
Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting 
still, 
Dwindling into the distance, dies that star 
Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed 
our fill 
With upturned faces on as real a Face 

That, stooping from grave music and mild 
fire. 
Took in our homage, made a visible place 
Through many a depth of glory, gyre on 
gyre. 
For the dim human tribute. Was this true? 
Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his, 



340 BROWNING'S POEMS. 

To help by rapture God's own rapture too, 

Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale 
bliss? 
Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast, 

And shriek, and throw the arms protesting 
wide, 
When a first shadow showed the star addressed 

Itself to motion, and on either side 
The rims contracted as the rays retired ; 

The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse, 
Subsided on itself; awhile transpired 

Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse. 
No prayers retard; then even this was gone, 

Lost in the night at last : We, lone and left 
Silent through centuries, ever and anon 

Venture to probe again the vault bereft 
Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist 

Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say — 
And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst. 

But vvhere may hide what came and loved 
our clay? 
How shall the sage detect in yon expanse 

The star which chose to stoop and stay for 
us? 
Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance 

Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus? 
Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred? 

We shall not look up, know ourselves are 
seen, 
Speak, and be sure that we again are heard, 

Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene 
Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame. 

Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and 
numb. 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 341 

Its core had never crimsoned all the same, 

Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb? 
Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post. 

Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch 
appals, 
Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the 
most 
On whose repugnant brow the crown next 



falls! 



Third Speaker. 



Witless alike of will and way divine, 

How heaven's high with earth's low should 

intertwine ! 
Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now 

use mine! 



Take the least man of all mankind, as I ; 
Look at his head and heart, find how and why 
He differs from his fellows utterly: 

III 

Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees 
Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas 
(They said of old) the instinctive water flees 

IV 

Toward some el'ected point of central rock. 
As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock 
Of waves about the waste : awhile they mock 



342 BROWNING'S POEMS. 



With radiance caught for the occasion, — hues 
Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues 
As only heaven could fitly interfuse, — 

VI 

The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king 
O' the current for a minute: then they wring 
Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, 

VII 

And hasten off, to play again elsewhere 
The same part, choose another peak as bare, 
They find and flatter, feast and finish there. 

VIII 

When you see what I tell you, — nature dance 

About each man of us, retire, advance, 

As though the pageant's end were to enhance 

IX 

His worth, and — once the life, his product, 

gained — 
Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained, 
And show thus real, a thing the . North but 

feigned, — 



When you acknowledge that one world could do 
All the diverse work, old yet ever new, 
Divide us, each from other, me from you, — 



BROWNING'S POEMS. 343 

XI 

Why, Where's the need of Temple, when the 
walls 

O' the world are that? What use of swells and 
falls 

From Levites' choir, Priests* cries, and trum- 
pet-calls? 

XII 

That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, 
Or decomposes but to recompose, 
Become my universe that feels and knows! 

THE END. 



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